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LETTERS OF A CANADIAN 
STRETCHER BEARER 



LETTERS OF A CANADIAN 
STRETCHER BEARER 



BY 

R. A. L. 

EDITED BY 

ANNA CHAPIN RAY 




BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1918 






Copyright, WIS, 
By Little, Brown, and Company. 

All rights reserved 
Published, January, 1918 



M 24 i*3'i8 



NorfoootJ 13rras 

Set up and clcctrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 

Pressvvork by S. J. Parkbill & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 



©CI.A4920; 2 



n£ 



EDITOR'S NOTE 

For military reasons, it has been judged wiser 
to withhold the full name of the Canadian 
Stretcher Bearer until the close of the war. 

However, it may interest his readers to know 
that he is an Old Country-man, although he is 
now in the Canadian Expeditionary Force, and 
earlier had lived in the States. On the 31st 
May, 1915, he enlisted. Six weeks later, with 
the earliest of our letters, we find him in England, 
and rebelling against the unsatisfactory nature 
of service in what he caustically terms a Safety- 
First battalion. It was only a matter of time, 
however, before he caused himself to be trans- 
ferred to hospital service, crossing to France to 
take a place as orderly in No. 3 Canadian General 
Hospital at Boulogne, where he arrived early in 

1916. From that time on until the 23rd August, 

1917, when he was gassed and sent to Blighty, 
the story has been left entirely in his own hands, 
to tell it as convincingly as may be. 

Since then, he has been, first in hospital in 
England, then in the First Reserve Battalion, 
awaiting the call back to service in the trenches. 



VI 



EDITORS NOTE 



This call, however, is sounding fainter and more 
remote. A cable has been received, this morning, 
saying that he is being sent back to Canada, his 
active service at an end. 

Ottawa, 

Fifth December, 

Nineteen Seventeen. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

Editor's Note v 

I Blighty 1 

II At the Base 31 

III Up the Line 85 

IV In the Trenches 155 

V A Nice Soft Blighty 275 

Epilogue 289 



I 

BLIGHTY 



LETTERS OF A CANADIAN 
STRETCHER BEARER 



BLIGHTY 

Shorncliffe, Kent, England, 
July, 1915. 
Lai dearest, — 

I want to keep writing letters that will give 
you real impressions. I mean impressions that 
will convey the exact condition over here, because 
conditions here are not even faintly similar to 
anything you and I have seen together. It is 
difficult however, — not only getting the exact 
impressions, but getting them down on paper. 
I am writing this on a doubtful table laden with 
cheap "pots" (pardon, dishes), surrounded by 
a very hungry crowd waiting for the dinner call. 
Writing is hard, but I'll do my best. 

To go 'way back. We only learned recently 
how near we came to being torpedoed. It was 
very near — about a mile, to be exact. I re- 
member seeing a lighthouse one morning and 

3 



4 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

then in a few hours another one — yet it was the 
same. I thought at the time it was funny ; now 
I know we had turned right around, and beat it 
back some distance. Then another destroyer came 
up, also — luckily, I guess — a dense fog. Anyhow 
we're here. It was kind of exciting, though. 

We are in huts : our work is merely fatigue 
work of no interest. It isn't that I want to tell 
you ; but of the things I have learned about this 
greatest of world upheavals. . . . 

Well, — dinner is over, in a rush, like a lot of 
wild animals — beef, potatoes, rice pudding — 
the same always. And now I am writing on my 
bed, an affair of boards six inches from the ground 
and rather low. 

I don't know how to begin to tell you "things" ; 
but my main impression is that I should have 
been here long ago, — also, not in a "safety first" 
corps. This thing is so terrific, this war, that a 
Canadian in Canada cannot possibly grasp it. 

You cannot imagine men arriving here in this 
camp, getting an order at six p.m. to be at the 
station at seven — no sleep that night — run- 
ning like hell — cross the Channel and next go 
right into a trench. And do you know that 
they have gone back into armour again in this 
war — that the thing is so desperately fierce 
that a rifle is becoming of no use, only high explo- 
sive shells, then knives and hand grenades? 
Men come back, recovered from wounds, for 



BLIGHTY 5 

three days' leave ; and have to go right back to 
it again — back to face it all. And all the men — 
every one — agree that it is indescribable. You 
must never expect to come back. As long as the 
sun shines, we shall never drive them — the Ger- 
mans — out of Belgium. We shall win ; but not 
that way. 

Also all agree that the Huns (and you soon get 
the habit of using that word) do not play the 
game. They have ten machine guns to our one, 
as close as twenty -five yards apart — when our 
men have in cases been given orders to fire as 
little as six shells only at a time. But the Ger- 
mans cannot stand — will not stand. This is not 
just rumour ; but what I've gathered from dozens 
of talks to dozens of men. The great difficulty 
is to distinguish between rumour and fact. But 
I am being careful to tell you what I am sure of. 

The atrocities are facts. 

And here is an extraordinary fact : the Saxons 
will not fight against us, and they have to be 
split up here and there with Prussian regiments. . . . 

The things that really matter are not in any 
papers. Hull has been raided more than once. 
On one occasion over one hundred were killed. 
Three times last week, Zeppelins tried to locate 
this camp and failed. It was read out in Orders. 
Aeroplanes scout round, night as well as day, and 
in the Channel just over the cliff lie sometimes 
destroyers — sometimes cruisers. 



6 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

This letter is bound to be disconnected; but 
you must piece it together. 

Wounded do not have to wear belts or puttees ; 
others do. That is one way of telling. Another 
is to look in their faces. I can tell one at a 
glance; I can even tell you the man who has 
been over, without asking. That's what you 
call it — "being over." ... It doesn't sound 
much but — it means a lot. 

I cannot tell you about London, all at once. 
First, though, it is the only town. Once again 
I am sure of it. 

But what a London now ! 

London, the stiff, stuck-up place, doesn't 
resemble itself in the least. There are just as 
many Belgium — French — soldiers on the street 
as English, little boys of about fourteen ; French 
is spoken almost as much as English, and every- 
where are wounded — in blue hospital suits, in 
carriages and pairs, in autos, and on top of 'buses 
in parties. I was there for two nights and two 
days. I was alone, but they won't let you be 
alone — at least that was my experience. They 
want to talk to you. Once the town, as I re- 
member it, only just woke up about ten p.m. 
Now all is quiet soon after ten. 

The entrance to Hyde Park looked quaint with 
a huge searchlight on top painted a dark grey, 
and beside it, in a kind of shed, what I took to 
be an anti-aircraft gun. 



BLIGHTY 7 

15 July, '15. 

It is all too vast to comprehend, as one has 
nothing to compare it with. . . . On Sunday I 
saw several aeroplanes rise out of the hills at the 
back of here, and wing their way over to France. 
Only a few years ago, Lord Northcliffe paid fifty 
thousand dollars to the first man to fly over, 

and the fact was a world sensation. At H 

there are a fleet of automobiles that at a distance 
look just like ordinary grey machines till you get 
close. Then you see each is mounted with a 
high-angle gun. It all seems so out of place in 
these little quiet English lanes, all drowsing in 
the hot summer sun. The brambles are growing 
on the hedges just the same. The sheep dot the 
little green fields, and old women bustle around 
their little rose-covered cottages, everything just 
like it always is, — when all of a sudden a line 
of huge grey trucks goes tearing through the 
narrow lane, stirring up great clouds of dust, 
each machine with Canada painted on its grey 
side and a couple of Canucks, who have no no- 
tion what " speed limit " means, on the front 
seat. Inside may be anything from bread to 
guns. The natives don't even look up from 
their work. No one even glances at marching 
men, or aeroplanes, or anything. All this is quite 
natural now. Suddenly you round a turn, and 
come on long, long, long lines of sweating, march- 



8 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

ing men in full kit, rifle, and everything — band 
in front. They are on a route march. Tre- 
mendous things they are, too, as two men who 
fell out and died last week could no doubt have 
testified, if they had lived. Sometimes these 
are undertaken at nights — unexpectedly. Near 
our camp are men without puttees, and with 
walking sticks. They are wounded convalescent. 
And away over on the other side are the big hos- 
pitals where the wounded are cared for. I don't 
know how many there are of those; but one of 
our men who has been attached to the Medical 
Corps does nothing all day long but carry men 
on a stretcher from the operating tables to the 
long lines of ambulance cars which whizz them 
away to their particular quarters. He says the 
number is staggering. And all this is only in 
one wee corner of this affair. 

There is nothing I suppose for me to tell you 
about the war. You know all the news at the 
same time as I do, and it's less confusing. As I 
write, a man is sitting in the hut, a P.P.C.L.I., 
wounded in the legs. You may notice I mention 
the Patricia's a lot. It's because we are quar- 
tered next to them and so see a lot of them. Also, 
I still think they are the best outfit here. 

The big trouble I have in describing things to 
you is that I have only hearsay to go by, and so 
far have only been able to talk to "single-idea 
men ", those who only talk of that which they 



BLIGHTY 9 

themselves have done and seen, therefore narrow. 
It's impossible to get a general idea. However 
I guess if I were there myself, I would be the 
same. I couldn't get a broad idea, only seeing a 
limited view. One thing however is very, very 
certain — the trenches are Hell. No other word 
comes anywhere near describing it. One thing 
may help you to form an idea of the feeling in 
the trenches ; the men play cards a lot, but they 
don't take any trouble to finesse or play care- 
fully. They bet all the money they have. When 
they are on leave, they spend all their money. 
Of what use, they say, is money to you? Of 
what use to think of the future? There isn't 
going to be one. 

Another thing : it would be very hard for you, 
I know, to realize that the Canadians are only 

a very tiny, tiny drop in all this ocean of ? 

(Can't find word.) What I mean is — you 
only hear of the Canucks, and England is in- 
tensely proud of them ; but — they are nothing 
by comparison. My county, Yorkshire, has fif- 
teen battalions of volunteers in France now — 
all volunteers at twenty-five cents a day. 

What do you think of my going to the front? 
Perhaps to get promotion and really do some- 
thing ? I am slightly indifferent — that is, just 
at the moment. At other times, mostly when 
talking to men just come back or just going over, 
I want to be in it. But — also I want to be 



10 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

with you and Bill * again. You'd better hurry 
and say "go" or "stay." Which? I'd sooner 
go under altogether than come back wounded. 
I've never yet seen a wounded man that looked as 
though he'd ever be good for anything any more. 
And that is a big thing to say, but it's true. I 
hope I'm wrong. 

Two weeks ago, we turned out hatless in the 
pouring rain to cheer a draft of Princess Pats 
on their way to the boat. Yesterday we heard 
they had been slashed to pieces, and now another 
draft must go. 

It rains here every day — every day without 
fail. Some say it's the bombardment over the 
Channel. I don't know. Certainly — though I 
haven't much to say for the English climate at 
any time — this surely is the limit. And cold ! 
I freeze nearly every night with three blankets, 
and often have to get my overcoat on the bed to 
keep warm. 

17 August, '15. 

Just had dinner, got my transfer signed by the 
doctor this morning. Think I must have been 
passed before I was examined, as he only just 
glanced at me without getting out of his chair, 
and said I was passed. The next I hear will 
be my name in Orders as transferred from the 
to the C.A.M.C. Thank God! Guess 

1 The writer's daughter. 



BLIGHTY 11 

I'll be a little more useful than ornamental from 
now on, and can take a larger part in this war; 
and if I get back, will at least have a feeling that 
I attempted something, however little. A C.A. 
M.C. draft is going over very soon. I hope I 
get in it and can start to be of use at once. 

Yesterday all the Canadians were reviewed by 
the Princess Alexandra of Teck. As usual, it 
poured with rain — it's raining as I write this — 
It rains every day — There is a rumour the King 
inspects us this week sometime. 

Reviews are a nuisance to the men. They all 
hate them. 

18 August, '15. 

Last night a number of destroyers in the 
Channel began "talking" in their peculiar sharp 
yapping way with their sirens, just for all the 
world like a bunch of fox terriers on the scent of 
a rabbit. Then guns began to speak. It only 
lasted a few minutes. I suppose it was an air- 
ship again, or maybe just a false alarm ; nothing 
very serious, anyhow, but a little exciting — par- 
ticularly to those who have no experience at 
gun fire. 

A man just returned from London says that 
when immediate orders for the return of certain 
units to their regiments are given out, the news 
is flashed on the cinema screens, and any men 
there beat it to the nearest station. 



12 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

There are no orders respecting my transfer 
yet. It has gone through, of course; but it has 
to be on the Daily Orders before I move over. 
Wish it would come. This is monotonous and 
I may miss the next draft. If I do, the wait 
may be interminable. That's one of the main 
hardships in the army — at least on active ser- 
vice — the uncertainty and the long, long waits. 
I have heard that some men go crazy in the 
trenches when the order is delayed for some 
reason, after being given for a charge. And in a 
minor way the long wait for reviews, on special 
parades, and the uncertainty of moves are all 
irritating to the last degree. I can't even begin 
to imagine why a man should want to be a 
soldier in peace time. 

(Noon) 19 August, '15. 

Still no orders about the transfers. Worked 
up at clinic. More patients by about a dozen 
than we could possibly attend to. Very lovely 
morning. Got further details about the Zepp. 
raid of last night. All reports forget to state 
that a fleet of Zeppelins reached London and 
made a regular killing. Bad news has been sup- 
pressed, but men are coming in all the time today 
who went yesterday up to see the damage done. 
It was pretty bad, whole streets being torn up. 

Why the deuce they fail to find this camp, 
beats me altogether. There are today fifty thou- 



BLIGHTY 13 

sand men — soldiers — camped in a few square 
miles here, yet all the silly fools can do is to drop 
bombs on towns and kill civilians. I won't 
believe they don't know, almost to a man, just 
how many are here and where we are. Yet they 
never come. . . . 

20 August, '15. 

I wonder if President Wilson will send a note 
or only just a picture postcard over this latest 
atrocity. What on earth can they gain by sink- 
ing the Arabic? Gott and the Kaiser alone 
know. 

Tonight my transfer is in Orders and tomor- 
row I move. I will send the address immediately 
I get it. I shall miss the draft leaving for France 
right away. 

7.55 a.m. Tuesday, 9 November, '15. 

Dearie : — 

Your letter came — to use the novelist's ex- 
pression — at the psychological moment (only 
they spell it differently). Anyhow, it was the 
one thing needed and, if you promise not to laugh, 
I'll tell you — I slept with it in my hand (till 
it fell out). You'll be surprised, of course, but 
this is being written in Bed 1, Ward 15, No. 2 
General Hospital, Chelsea, London. 

Don't get excited. I was never better in my 
life — never. I feel just great; I've just had 



14 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

my temperature taken and all is well. On the 
sheet above my cot, it says I am suffering from 
rheumatic cold (whatever that is) and generally 
run down. Anyhow, as I said, I feel fine, and 
your letter has done me worlds of good. I'll 
tell you all about the hospital, if you like. . . . 

It's an English hospital ; it used to be a col- 
lege, St. Mark's. Luckily I struck the Austra- 
lian ward. There are only two English in it : 
one in the opposite corner as I write — he's 
screened off — cashing in. 

The other is a sixteen-year-old boy of the 
"cissie" class — a real sport. The rest are 
Australians and New Zealanders and me — 
Canuck. Only three can get up. Every day, 
ladies call in autos and taxis to take out those 
who can go; they take 'em everywhere, shows 
and everything. I had no idea that the women 
of the country were so eager to help. It's 
splendid. 

The place of course is spotless — lots of flowers 
and a canary bird. It's peaceful, and I guess it's 
doing me no end of good. 

It's peaceful, dear. But — at night — well — 
most stories have two sides. 

The man in the corner dies very slowly. 

All the others are wounded — and I guess 
their wounds hurt more at night. 

There is another thing. I guess I've made 
up my mind I'm going to France alright. But — 



BLIGHTY 15 

It's a very different thing, this volunteering 
to go now, to volunteering in Ottawa. The brass 
band accompaniment has all gone. The glamour 
has worn off. I want to go home. I'd give 
the world to go home. . . . 

Yet, I feel somehow I ought to go. 

Night. 

Before I go to bed, I want to give you an ac- 
count of the concert I went to tonight. To be- 
gin with, I want to tell you that every other 
night the greatest concerts you could get are 
given here. A large number of the best theatrical 
people live in Chelsea, and on their way to the 
theatre, they make up parties of their friends 
and arrange a quick concert in this hospital. 
It's just great of them, I think. 

When I got in the hall, I fairly gasped. If 
only you could have been there ! Imagine the 
large hall of the college, huge, high, magnificent. 
Ranged all up and down round the walls, in rows, 
cots with wounded in them. Between the beds, 
little benches full of men in blue suits, and Red 
Cross nurses here, there and everywhere. Round, 
above, a balcony, also packed with blue-suited 
men with nurses, and where there was not room 
on the benches, men sat on the beds — men from 
all the ends of the earth, of all classes, yet all 
pals, bound together for one purpose, one end. 
The air was blue with smoke. At one end was 



16 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 1 

a stage with a lot of the ward screens — folding 
ones — on it, and an electric lamp or two. I 
think it was the most impressive sight I've ever 
seen. Wheeled chairs everywhere, men in every 
state of bandaged injury, and the men lying in 
bed, some in dressing gowns, men in silk pyjamas, 
men in college blazers, and even men in Canadian 
sweaters. 

I shall never forget it, never. 

One thing that impressed me was in leaving. 
You know how a usual crowd of men rush out 
of a show. Well, this show did not rush — each 
man dared not touch his neighbour. He did not 
know where he was hurt. 

9.45 a.m. 11 November, '15. 

My dearest girl. 

. . . Last night, Wednesday, was Zepp. night; 
but none came. It's curious how method- 
ical the Germans are, even in war. It seems 
they cannot get away from it. In the trenches 
in France, I am told they begin their morning 
and evening "Hate" in the shape of a tremendous 
artillery bombardment at exactly the same hour 
to the minute, morning and evening, and stop 
at the same time. It's curious. You'd think 
they'd stand a better chance, if they varied it. 
Wednesday night, in London, is always Zepp. 
night. Last night, from the windows of the 
ward, we could see the searchlights, one talking 



BLIGHTY 17 

continuously in code to the aeroplanes aloft. 
Sister said the planes, circling around all night, 
continuously dropped green rockets — apparently 
to say all was well. 

London, of course, is almost quite dark now, at 
night. It's a fearful undertaking, crossing a 
busy street after dark. All the trains have 
blinds down. The street cars and 'buses are 
dark inside. Clock faces are not lit up. Of 
course, there are no electric signs. All shop 
windows have blinds down. 

London has adopted the German plan of 
displaying captured guns. It's a good idea, I 
think. I wonder they haven't done it before. 

I don't profess to understand the war news 
these days; I don't know whether it's good or 
bad. The only thing I do understand, is, that 
if it hadn't been for the navy, we'd 'a' been licked 
long ago. 

As a matter of fact, I'm absolutely fed up with 
it all. When I read the American magazines — or 
rather read the ads. — I just ache to be back. I 
found some new "Penrod" stories, and also some 
"Wallingford" ones. Oh! Gee! but it's fine to 
read something live again ! I've got hold of a 
book called "Queed"; I've heard of it some- 
where, but I can't think where. I've only read 
two or three pages, but it looks promising. 

No dearie, no England for mine, not without 
you ! To live here in the same conditions as 



18 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

we would be living in the States — No, thank 
you ! Mind you, I want to come back. There's 
something will always drag me back ; but always it 
will grow stale. I understand that's how it affects 
all Englishmen who have travelled a bit. Doesn't 
Kipling say something about it ? Methinks — 

"The breezes of England are stale 
And the sunshine of England is pale." 

I forget it. Anyhow it hits the spot, as all 
Kipling's stuff does. 

Friday, 8.45 a.m. (In Bed) 

I am writing this while they are cleaning up 
the ward. All the beds are moved around, floor 
polished, your little table washed — everything 
made spotless under the watchful eye of Sister. 
This is done every morning, and when all is ship- 
shape and peaceful again, the doctor comes 
around. Most of us read. One man makes wire 
and bead butterflies, which visitors buy off him. 
Some are not well enough to do anything but lie 
and doze all day. It's very clean, peaceful and 
— yes — I guess it is rather nice. The fact is, 
I feel so awfully fit, I could push a 'bus over with 
one hand. Yet this morning I am going to have 
my first electric bath. The boys who have had 
them say they are rather nice. 

It's a regular old London November fog out- 
side, yellow, soapy. Yet, somehow, London — 



BLIGHTY 19 

and fascinating. It sneaks through the cracks 
in the windows, under the doors, everywhere. 
Dear old, dirty London ! I am sick of her. — 
Yes. But from the ends of the earth I have to 
come back, and again back. She's irresistible. 
Yet I hate the very sound of the English accent. 
I am absolutely an American in all the word 
stands for. I don't like the English — But — 
There it is — Just this one town has "got me" 
and will always have, as it has all Englishmen 
who have lived here, from the North Pole to the 
South. Just give me a steerage ticket across the 
Atlantic, and without a cent I would fairly run 
on board. . . . 

Monday, 9 a.m. 

I mentioned, I think, how the rich people 
send crates full of fruit for this hospital, from the 
Queen downwards. Well, now a contrast : a 
parson came in the other night with a small 
parcel under his arm. He said a poor girl in the 
East End had been denying herself sugar for two 
months, so the wounded soldiers could have it. 
There were perhaps two pounds. Pathetic, eh? 

In this war, you get a good chance to see what 
a leveller this war is from a social point of view. 
A woman with about a thousand pounds' worth 
of furs sits on one bed, and the next holds a poor 
woman from the East End who has done her 
very best to trick herself out a bit, and only made 



20 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

herself look pathetic. Of course in Canada, or 
the States, the gulf is not so wide ; but here where 
it has been, and will be again, so wide as to be 
unbridgeable, indeed a separate world altogether, 
it strikes with tremendous force. The men all 
look alike, in bed or in a blue hospital suit. Only 
when they speak can you place them; but their 
visitors label 'em at once and forever. I notice 
the men in the poorer class kiss their sons. The 
rich don't. The poor display all their emotions 
from joy to tears. The rich seem casual, off- 
hand, just pleasantly cheery. But — 

I know there are no serious heart-to-heart 
talks in this ; but I don't feel like that kind of a 
talk. Let it rest a while, till I get out of here. 

Friday, 19 November, '15. 
No. 2 General Hospital, 
Chelsea, London. 

... I was only thinking, last night, I'm 
having one of the times of my life : lots of the 
best grub, all kinds of good shows to see, nothing 
to do, and a couple of Sisters running around 
fixing you up all the time, a comfy bed, and lovely 
clean things every other day — and all the time 
feeling absolutely fine. I forgot to mention that 
a masseuse gives me electric air baths every other 
day, which are just too great for anything — and 
this is War. Gee! 

The lady I mentioned in the previous letter, 



BLIGHTY 21 

who I got the chocolates from, was a multi- 
millionaire. She brings a big six Rolls-Royce 
limousine with her and puts all the boys in she 
can get, and sends her chauffeur along to drive 
'em all over London, while she stays in the ward 
and sews buttons on the boys' shirts for 'em. 
She is getting up a sort of bazaar. Every man 
in this place has to make something. Prizes will 
be given, and the things sold as souvenirs, the 
money to go to the Red Cross. It's great fun. 
We all have something. Some of the boys here 
are knitting scarfs, string bags, dressing dolls. 
You'd die to see some of the results. I have a 
kettle holder to make. It's a kind of a square 
piece of canvas with holes in it. In the middle 
is a cat, and I have to fill all the little holes in it 
with wool. It's awful hard work, and I guess 
I'm making a rotten mess of it. But, as I said, 
it's a lot of fun. . . . 

I forgot whether I told you that this hospital has 
the record for London of turning out ninety per 
cent, of its casualties cured. They are very jealous 
of their reputation, and it's harder to get out than 
it is in. They don't want to take any chances. 

We were to have had that boat-load of wounded 
from the Anglia, but you know what happened 
most of them — so last night we got a train from 
the Dardanelles. . . . 

About noon, Sister asked me if I'd like to go 
out in the afternoon. You bet I did. A lady 



22 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

came with a six Rolls-Royce limousine and took 
all the car would hold to Kingsway Hall to a 
concert. * After the concert she took us to tea. 

Gee, but the Londoners have changed; this 
war sure has given them a jolt. Just imagine a 
year or two ago what would happen if a bunch 
of fellows strolled into the stalls of a show in 
dressing gowns — in dear, staid old London ! 
And yet I've seen that happen, and seen fellows 
carried in at full length, and every one anxious 
to help. Once, to applaud a turn was vulgar. 
Today all the cat calls, whistles, and roars to come 
back are quite in order, and only just draw pleas- 
ant, indulgent smiles from the one-time stiff 
people of a few years ago. The common or gar- 
den Tommy owns London today, and the people 
are finding out what Kipling told them a few 
years ago : that he is just an ordinary man "most 
remarkable like you." You must realize that 
before the war a Tommy in uniform was not 
even allowed in a better part of the theatre or in 
the best bars of the West End hotels. 

It struck me yesterday that England may 
perhaps be different, after all, when the war is 
over. There were several ladies yesterday with 
parties of fellows, and one thing I could not help 
noticing — that all that patronising way that 
the "upper" classes always affected when giving 
charity, was all gone. They honestly got down 
to brass tacks, and meant everything, and en- 



BLIGHTY 23 

joyed doing it. If only that get-together feeling 
would last, England would be the finest country 
in the world. At tea, which we had in one of 
the side rooms in the hall, we were waited on by 
the ladies who took us and by the people who 
sang and played. One party was being waited 
on by Lord Kitchener's sister. 

And now I must quit and get on with my cat, 
which my Canuck lady says is very good and 
should have a prize. Ahem ! ! ! ! 

Tuesday, 13 December. 

You'll want to hear about the Zepp. raid. All 
the town is on edge now. The barber, as he 
shaves you, says he knows for a fact six are on 
the way now; we are to have them every night. 
The news boys ask you about them ; every one 
you speak to discusses nothing else. You see 
it was the first time the war got "right home." 
They've had Zepp. raids on London, of course, 
before; but never three of 'em right overhead 
in the West End — the pleasure part — with 
anti-aircraft guns banging from the most unex- 
pected places, some throwing star shells, others 
shrapnel, others high explosives — and the long 
silver streak dropping her death and destruction 
all around, apparently oblivious of all the attempts 
to bring her down. Crowds blocked the streets 
and yelled, collaring hold of each other as a shell 
burst right over the machine. Every time she 



24 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

dipped in her manoeuvres, which were most re- 
markably graceful and rapid for such a huge 
affair, they thought she was coming down, and 
roared like at some huge firework display. It 
was the most stupendous show I shall ever see. 
I was tremendously lucky. When I first heard 
the banging, I was on the Y. steps, talking to a 
Yank who had joined the English army. We 
saw the thing as soon as the searchlights found 
her, and raced towards her. She was headed our 
way at the time, and when right over us, there 
was a rushing sound overhead and a hell of a 
bang which seemed right on top of us. In real- 
ity, the bomb had fallen about thirty or forty 
yards away on the corner of a saloon which it 
tore completely away, entering the ground and 
breaking open a gas main. This took fire and 
a flame shot 'way up over the house tops, busted 
windows all around, dropped bits of glass on us. 
I thought it was parts of a shell and I had got it 
this time; but I hardly felt it. The heat from 
the gas burning was tremendous. Lots of people 
running aimlessly and yelling. I never saw my 
Yank friend again, but an Australian officer 
came up — the police were quite helpless, so 
he and I got one of those barrels they put street 
refuse in — a yellow three- wheeled thing. We 
found some sand in a big green bin on the corner 
and filled her up — the barrel, I mean — and 
chucked the whole works on the hole where the 



BLIGHTY 25 

flames came up. A teaspoonful would have done 
as much good. By this time a crowd was there, 
mostly soldiers. Then came a fire engine. The 
Australian had one end of the big nozzle; I was 
next. The soldiers all lined up and formed a 
fatigue. It was great. The firemen went to 
bust walls and things to get back of the saloon, 
as it was on fire, too. All we did was to hold the 
nozzle over the hole in the street, as near to it 
as we could get, but it didn't put it out. The 
Zepp. was sailing merrily around all the time, 
absolutely oblivious of the guns — the shooting 
was a joke — and every one was saying "where 
are the aeroplanes?" But narry a one went up. 
I had a row with a Royal Flying Corpsman about 
it. He said they hadn't enough machines. 
Damn rot ! Some one blundered over that raid ; 
they've admitted it, as a squad of French airmen 
have come to town and they've mounted bigger 
guns here and there. 

Later (just been down to tea). 

By the way, this is a rotten place to write. 
I'm in the big main hall. It's packed — soldiers 
of all kinds from the ends of the earth. In the 
morning, this same hall will be full of sleeping 
soldiers, wounded and others, on the sofas and 
things. They cannot find beds anywhere. I 
sleep in a large dormitory that was once the main 
smoking-room, now full of iron cots. No dis- 



26 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

tinction is made. We are all the same. My God, 
to think I nearly forbore to wear this khaki ! 
I would have died of shame. . . . Thank God, 
I am in it, and — dearie — remember it is all 
done in your name — yours — and Billie's, who 
is half English. But to resume on the raid — I 
have lost the thread, I must look up where I 
left off. Yes, bigger guns, and that reminds me 
I have a cutting. Wait . . . 

To come to the horrid, yet most serious part. 
Of course, though they smashed a lot of property, 
they did no real damage. It is also — about — 
true that they never kill a soldier. But you 
don't want to believe what you read about the 
"casualties." 

This particular night, they didn't have enough am- 
bulances. That's true. An archdeacon preached 
a sermon, last Sunday, in which he said he 
personally knew five babies that were blown to 
bits. 

I myself saw so many bodies being carted 
away that I didn't bother to count them. 

I heard from a soldier eye-witness where they 
had to jump over lots of dead bodies to get to 
work on a burning building. The bomb had 
dropped on a crowd. 

One story told me in the Y. here was about a 
motor-bus driver's head dropping into an adja- 
cent street. I think it was true, though of 
course it seems fantastic, 



BLIGHTY 27 

I suppose it's war alright. They talk of war 
on women and babes ; but, damn it, we should 
do the same. Why not? Where is our gas, 
etc. ? But, if we can win without it, I'd be more 
pleased if we could and would "play the game." 

7 January, '16. 

Moved into new billets with two good boys, 
both very nice. We are all in one room, nine- 
teen in the house altogether. Our window over- 
looks the sea. Feel very pleased with every- 
thing, just old lady — young son, boy scout — 
got breakfast for all of us this morning. Mother 
sick. Helped him at night to wash dishes — 
Awfully nice kid. 

Yesterday met a man going blind with pto- 
maine poisoning. Gave him note to Lai — seemed 
awfully strange sending messages like that, made 
the distance between us seem closer, and yet, oh, 
so far away. 

In my heart, I don't think I'll be home next 
Xmas. I don't think this war will be completed 
by then, and again when it's over they can't ship 
every one over inside six months. It's Hell ; 
but it's better to face it than kid yourself. 

20 January, '16. 

Volunteered for draft in afternoon. Passed 
doctor in good shape. Feel greatly relieved and 
bucked up that I have managed to get on. Draft 



28 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

consists of fifty men. As we are practically all 
strangers to each other, it is a little "difficult" 
at first, but no doubt that will soon rub off. The 
office staff volunteered in great style; the whole 
postal department volunteered in a body. 

Got a new kit — quality not nearly so good 
as the original one received in Ottawa. 

21 January, '16. 

Paraded for inspection before the Colonel — 
all O.K. He said "Men, you all look fit and 
well, and are about to have the chance you have 
waited for — etc. etc." Still have no definite 
idea of our destination. 

Weather very wet and miserable. Crossing 
will not be much fun — sea high. 

Taking only just what kit I really need. Leav- 
ing the rest in my billet till I return. 

22 January, '16. 

Wet and cold. Went for route march, feel 
great. Told were sure to leave any minute now. 
Hope so — don't like the suspense. Had lec- 
tures again from ten-thirty. The more I see 
there is to know, the more scared I get. All the 
fellows but a few learned something or other 
while in training in Canada, and more here. All 
I know is the Army Office routine, or that part of 
it directly connected with the Records, which 



BLIGHTY 29 

I am afraid will not amount to much in the field. 
However, guess I can learn. 

I want to put you wise again to that so-called 
"casualty" who will call on you — the one that's 
going blind. Be sure you don't do anything for 
him twice. I heard last night he was in the habit 
of saying he got his trouble at Festubert from 
gas, and then "touched" you for half a dollar. 

Sunday. (Noon) 

Still here, glorious day, sun shining, warm as 
spring. Just been for a stroll along the prom. 
Sea splashing right on to the board walk. Ten 
a.m. paraded with overseas party for church — 
went to Congregational (no option). In the 
whole church there were just three women, no 
civilians, two officers, and tucked away at one 
side was our party. I can't understand the 
reason. If we hadn't blown in accidentally, 
the congregation would have consisted of five 
persons. 

I don't like the service at all. It's the first 
time I've been to a church of that kind, I think. 

I have found quite a different outlook on every- 
thing since I got away from the city side of 
things. I have a "job of work" to do. It will 
last so long and no longer, and the only thing to 
do is to make the best of it till I can come home. 

It is my intention to slip this into an envelope 
at the last minute. That minute may be tonight. 



30 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

We parade at seven p.m., so excuse any sudden 
ending. Had identification tag stamped. Hope 
I can hang on to it for you as a souvenir. Fel- 
lows are wearing them as bracelets now, instead 
of around neck. 

Told we could not take cameras or keep diaries. 
Shall chance diary, but be careful what I enter. 
Weather getting worse. Don't think we shall 
go this week, personally. 

Beds all torn up. Place now mess room for 
troops, long oilcloth-covered tables run up and 
down the floor from the stage to the back; 
ticket offices, cloak room, etc. form kitchens. 
Strikes one as very novel, on first entrance, to 
see men peeling spuds in the ladies' cloak room, 
makes very good place for lectures. Was told 
what was expected of us and so forth (apparently 
there's quite a lot). No one knows where we 
are going or just when, but we must not leave 
billets. So it's any minute. Completed all kit 
packing (awful job !) but have everything in 
fine shape now. 

Feeling tremendously well. 

Quite confident you will approve of my ac- 
tion. . . . 



II 

AT THE BASE 



II 

AT THE BASE 

Thursday, 29 January, '16. 
(Address as usual) 
My very dearest girl : — 

Today there was an "Overseas Draft" wanted 
— I volunteered — was accepted — passed the 
doctor with flying colours. He said I was in 
splendid shape. 

Tonight I get my kit — and tomorrow I begin my 
real — really work — the kind you will be proud of. 

I shall write every slightest opportunity. 

Wish me luck ! 

Another letter tomorrow. 

Your own loving pal and husband, 

R. A. L. 

4 February, '16. 
Somewhere in France. 
My very dearest Lai : — 

Arrived in camp here safely and am now waiting 
orders to move up the line. 

Just when I have the most interesting things 
to tell you, I must confine myself to generalities, 
so you must understand, when you get letters 

33 



34 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

which contain nothing but uninteresting per- 
sonal details, that it is not my fault. 

The weather here is not bad, but damp and 
cold. We are in tents (twelve in each) out in the 
country, and the work is just fatigues, etc. until 
we get attached permanently to some particular 
detail. This morning I helped scrub out the 
Y.M.C.A hut. Some job, and I'm afraid I'm not 
very expert at it as yet. 

The camp here is about the cleanest and best 
arranged I have seen. Of course, everything is 
much stricter — discipline and everything. It's 
very obvious that there is a war on. 

I don't think there is any more I can tell you. 
It isn't much; is it? But I'll write more, when 
I get settled. I hope you won't forget to write 
oftener now ; will you ? 

Give my love to Bill. With every best thing 
I can wish for you. 

Sunday Afternoon, 5 February, '16. 

My dearest Lai : — 

. . . We are still in the same camp at the base, 
waiting instructions, and I shall be glad when we 
move. There's nothing to do but fatigues all day, 
and it's getting monotonous . There's a big English 
camp quite close, and we have (at least our outfit 
has) to go up there all the time, filling trucks with 
supplies. There's a little wee railroad system — 
narrow gauge — which apparently takes the sup- 



AT THE BASE 35 

plies to different units. You generally get through 
about 7.30. The meals are rotten — the boys 
who have been up the line say it's fifty times better 
up there. However, I guess it's all in the game ; 
anyhow, I feel most awfully fit. Last night, there 
was a concert at the Y. presided over by a chap- 
lain — I don't know his name, but he's about the 
best type of parson I've seen for a long time — 
no hot air — seems to understand just what's 
wanted. I heard a fellow say that if more parsons 
were like him, there'd be a jolly lot more fellows 
go to church, and I heartily agree. 

Today, we all had to attend church in a cinema 
building over in the English camp — C. of E. 
service. — The sermon was quite uninteresting. 
It's amazing how a man can go through life with- 
out getting in close touch with his fellow men. 
This particular man was utterly out of his element 
preaching to a bunch of Canadians on active 
service. . . . 

Remember always I am thinking of you. 

13 February, '16. 
No. 3. Canadian General Hospital, 

B. E. F. 

My dearest Lai : — 

At last I can write to tell you I am settled — 
at least for some time, and believe me it is some 
relief after knocking around since Christmas Eve. 
. . . We left England quite a large bunch, but are 



36 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

now split up, a few here and there to different 
corps. It was rather hard on some of the fellows, 
particularly those who had joined from some small 
town in Canada together, kept together right 
along, and then were finally separated. Being 
with any one you know well makes all the dif- 
ference in strange camps, though where we are 
now, every one seems to be so jolly decent that it 
doesn't matter so much. 

Right up to the time when we left Sandgate, 
I was getting more and more disgusted with things. 
There seemed nothing definite about the work, 
nothing to tie to. Even the work in London was 
more or less unsettled. I began to think all I had 
heard about decent corps coming over must have 
been a myth, but at last it seems I have drawn the 
right thing — something worth taking a real in- 
terest in and something incidentally to be proud 
of, as undoubtedly this corps is about the best of 
its kind that has come out here. I haven't 
started any regular work yet, but expect to to- 
morrow (Monday) . I don't know what it will be, 
either, but I suppose the usual thing in a big 
hospital. Of course it is all Canadian. The 
Y.M.C.A. hut where I am writing is quite a 
different one to the usual run. I understand it 
was organized before the fellows left Montreal. 
It's a private one and right on the ground, very 
quiet, very clean, and altogether nice in every 
way. There is a piano of course, heaps of 



AT THE BASE 37 

papers, magazines and so forth, and a first-rate 
library, also lots of comfy chairs. 

The usual run of camp Y.'s are — as far as I 
saw — just grocery stores, and only open at stated 
hours. That one at our last stopping place was 
a terror — you stood in line waiting your turn to 
get in sometimes for half an hour or so ; to sit down 
was quite an event. There was a concert every 
night, it's true, and the chaplain was one of the 
finest men I have ever met ; but as a place to rest 
or read or write it was impossible. The men have 
their own mess, the first I have struck. It costs 
five francs only, a month. Another thing which 
is fine, you can go down town without a pass. 
It means I suppose they can trust a fellow, which is 
rather more than nice. 

There are a great many things I want to say to 
you, but one rather hates to get personal in a cen- 
sored letter. Twice a month we get issued with 
a green envelope. You are on honour not to put 
anything of military significance in it, or rather 
write anything and enclose it. So when the 
"Postie" hands you those, you want to look out 
as the contents will be uncensored. 

23 February, '16. 
My very dearest Lai : — 

This is positively the first time I have had a 
chance to write you since the first letter after my 
arrival here. I thought there would be a lot of 



38 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

time for reading and writing, but when the day's 
work is done, you're so nearly all in that to get 
down between the blankets seems the only thing 
you can do. I'll try and tell you all about things. 

Firstly — you mustn't get the impression that, 
because I am in France, I am necessarily in the 
thick of things. I am far, far safer here than in 
England for that matter. In London there was 
always the mild excitement of a Zepp. raid — 
and the rather intense excitement of dodging 
taxicabs, while crossing the streets at night. 

Here if a Zepp. passes over — which I don't 
suppose ever happens — it doesn't condescend to 
notice us. Even to see an aeroplane is a novelty, 
and "the line" might be a million miles away, for 
all we see of it. 

My work is just plain work — lots and lots and 
lots of it — and then some. At seven a.m. I go on 
duty in my ward. At seven p.m. I come off. In 
case this might get monotonous, every other night 
I "stand to" to take in the wounded. At other 
times I sleep. 

Of course this was not a real hospital in the first 
place. My ward happens to be in a building. 
The rest are huts exactly similar to the huts you 
have seen pictured in Canada and other papers. 

We have forty -five beds ; two orderlies, three 
sisters and a fourth-year McGill man do all the 
work. We are situated up-stairs. In one sense, 
it's a nuisance because of the perpetual carrying ; 



AT THE BASE 39 

but in another it's better because they don't put 
many stretcher cases there for fear of fire, so most 
cases can walk and help around the ward a bit — 
and the first duty of an orderly is to get "jake" 
with the patients and put 'em to work without 
raising too many kicks. I guess you might like 
to know a few details of the work. At six reveille 
goes, and half dopey you crawl out of bed (we 
sleep on the floor on a sort of loft place) ; six- 
thirty breakfast in the dining-room, seven roll- 
call and "break away" to the patients' kitchen. 
Here you wait, at a counter, your turn to get the 
pans of bacon or porridge and the two pails of 
tea which is their breakfast. Fortunately my 
ward is not far from the kitchen — some are the 
deuce of a way as this is a very big hospital. 
When you arrive up-stairs, you dish out in a little 
back attic — which we call our kitchen — the 
grub for each patient. Those who can, help you. 
The night orderly has put out the tea bowls on 
each locker and cut the bread and butter. This 
done, there is water to be fetched — no water 
is laid on — and that one short remark should 
convey a lot to you. You can guess how much 
we use. We haven't a boiler and what isn't heated 
up on the round iron stoves in the two wards, has 
to be done on a wee alcohol stove just like the one 
we had at home. 

Well, I get water, heat it and put a bunch of 
patients to work washing up, others to sweeping. 



40 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Then I beat it for the coal. (All these things I 
"beat it" for, remember, have to be carried up- 
stairs as well as some distance away.) After I 
have fixed the stoves and the coal, I hustle away 
with the dirty water and the garbage to the incin- 
erator; and, in between carrying endless pails of 
water, I get the day's drugs, bandages, stores, 
extras and about a million other things. At about 
ten, I put some guys to work cutting bread for 
dinner. At ten-fifty I go and draw it — serve it — 
and so forth. Don't forget forty-five dinners is 
quite a job to handle. They are darn good dinners, 
too — lots of it. The "afternoon" — each man, 
chocolate, cigarettes, matches, oranges — and so 
forth. (The ones who help get a bit of extra here.) 
At three-fifty it's tea time, eggs (2), same old bread 
and butter job, washing up, etc. Then at 6 draw 
men's rations, bread — butter — sugar, get the 
night orderly's water — or some of it, and gen- 
erally leave everything "jake" by 7 p.m. — then 
bed. (There are lots of duties — not all pleasant 
— I haven't mentioned.) 

I guess you are thinking I hate it. Well, if so, 
you'll be wrong — I don't. 

To begin with, the McGill man and the other 
orderly, a qualified trained nurse, are both fine 
(gentlemen, of course) and we pull together well. 

But the whole thing depends on the Sisters, — 
whether they are grouchy. Our three, also the 
night Sister, are just great, so there is no friction 



AT THE BASE 41 

anywhere. There is so much work to do ? and we 
all dig in and do it. 

I have done things I never believed I could 
possibly do — and liked it. . . . I have seen 
wounds that you cannot bear to look at — ex- 
plosive bullets which go in like any other bullet, 
but come out leaving a hole you can get your 
fist in. 

But I am not going to tell you about all that. 
It just amounts to this ; that any one who would 
kick at having to wait on and work for these 
fellows, after what they have gone through, isn't 
worth much. 

I have mentioned that every other night I 
helped take in cases. 

The Staff is divided into two sections A. and B. 
One is on one night, and one the next. The work 
goes like this : 

At any hour during the night you must be pre- 
pared to stand to, within five minutes of the call. 
Roll is called and, half asleep, shivering with cold, 
you march over to the Receiving Room and wait 
outside the door. The Receiving Room is all lit 
up. Down the middle are rows of tables for the 
clerks to take the names of, and all particulars of, 
the men as they come in. At one table are the 
doctors. Usually the first to arrive, come in a 
big motor 'bus — the "sitters" — and believe me 
a fellow has to have it bad to get a stretcher. As 
the motor draws up to the door, the party known 



42 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

as the stretcher party rushes up and helps them out 
and over to the Receiving Room to get their par- 
ticulars and assign them to wards. After they're 
assigned, a man takes them over. (I'll tell you the 
next part later. I don't work at the Receiving 
Room since I've had a ward.) To my mind, the 
unloading of the "sitters" is more pathetic than 
the arrival of the stretcher cases. They come 
looking deathly ill, in the electric glare — just 
with the rough dressings they got up the line. 
Nearly all are plastered with yellow mud, where 
they have lain. Some have hardly any clothes. 
All have just any old uniform at all — The very 
antithesis of a peace soldier — None have slept 
since God knows when — yet they all attempt to 
be cheerful. It's either inspiring or dreadful, 
whichever way your nature makes you look at it. 
No matter how bad they've got it or how little, 
to me it is fine and wonderful to be able to help 
them when they are here. 

Very soon the ambulances come creeping up out 
of the night, up to the door. All is well-ordered 
hustle — no noise but the purring of the motors 
and the "Got him?" "Go ahead", of the 
stretcher-bearers as they lift them out of the car. 
Each one contains four. I was desperately afraid 
I should drop my first one, but I soon got used 
to it. 

When you have got your case, you — as gently 
as you can — take him inside and put him on the 



AT THE BASE 4S 

floor where he is interrogated as to his regiment, 
name, etc. His wound particulars are entered on 
a card which is tied to his uniform up the line. 
Some, of course, are not able to say anything. 
When a ward is assigned, two other fellows carry 
him there. 

This goes on till all have arrived, when the 
bunch go off to bed. 

Usually hot cocoa is given the fellows while on 
this work, which helps some, as the nights are 
raw and cold. (Today we have snow, though 
the trees are all in bud.) . . . 

If you are an orderly, when the fall-in sounds, 
you beat it to your ward. Here all is quiet hustle, 
getting night-shirts around the stoves, boiling up 
Oxo, preparing beds, getting out Blues for the 
patients to wear, and putting pans of hot water on 
a form with towels, soap etc., as each patient has 
to be washed before he is put to bed. 

Immediately the man brings along the patient 
assigned you, you jump to get his clothes off him. 
Sometimes this is quite a job. (Most of them of 
course are — well — lousy.) You chuck the 
clothes in a corner to be taken to a fumigator, 
giving the man his personal stuff, his hat, and his 
boots. Then you wash him — at least that part 
of him out of bandages, then take him to bed 
and give him a bowl of Oxo. Sometimes you have 
about 4 or 5, all washing at once and you are rushed 
like the deuce. I have known men to go to sleep 



44 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

during the process. When all are in bed, you go, 
too — till 6 A.M. 

Nearly all our patients are English Tommies. 
They are of every possible type and condition, but 
they all look the same to us, and they all get any- 
thing we can give 'em. Class prejudice doesn't 
go here, and we have no use for a grouch. 

The first question a patient asks you most 
eagerly, "Is it a Blighty wound?" That means 
one bad enough to be sent to England, yet not 
bad enough to keep here. The "nice" wounds 
are the Blighty ones. 

Next day, most of 'em just lie and sleep, but 
each day they get brighter and brighter. Usually 
the first sign of recovery is when they begin to 
kid the orderlies and the Sisters, and ask "Ay, 
chum, 'ave you got a bit more bread and butter?" 
The answer is always yes. We give 'em all they 
want. 

They sure like the Can"ai"dians. 

Everything is done on a system. Those with 
shrapnel or bullets in 'em go down next day to be 
X-Rayed. Next day, it's taken out and handed 
to them. It's just an everyday business. 

26 February, '16. 

... I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I 
do not sit down, not even to meals, which I snatch 
standing up in between washing dishes from six 
a.m. to about now — eight p.m. There isn't 



AT THE BASE 45 

time. When the doctor comes in the morning, I 
help with the dressings, such as holding an arm 
with a double fracture, where a bullet has torn a 
hole that you can see right through, while the 
doctor cleanses it and dresses it. At one time 
not so long ago, it would have made me sick in 
the tummy. It doesn't now any more ; my nerves 
are jake — I am my own man. . . . 

So Wilson is going to help strafe our friends a 
bit. I am sorry for the same reason you are. Bill 
was with you when you were writing. How I 
would love to see her and play with her, and to 
teach her to like her old dad. Home doesn't seem 
so far away after your letters, but it pulls at my 
heart strings as I could never have believed 
possible — But — all may have been for the best. 
Oh, if only the war would end ! But I am afraid 
that — terribly afraid — it is to be of long dura- 
tion. Do you remember how every one was so 
optimistic at the beginning. I prophesied the 
coming October; I wish it was to be true: 
But — ? 

27 February. (Sunday Evening) 

My dearie : — 

It's Sunday evening. I guess our occupations 
are very different — Just the same we can talk 
in the same old way. Since I got your letter last 
night, I have felt great, all day. It's fine to think 
that although so far away and on such strange 



46 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

work, I have my one real pal to talk to in the same 
old way, the one person who will understand 
thoroughly, and, I hope, sympathize. 

I wrote last night telling you of the new con- 
dition of my work under quarantine. Today of 
course has been just the same round of work — 
if anything just a bit more interesting — as I am 
beginning to be entrusted with bandaging after 
the doctor has put on the dressings, and gone on 
to the next case where I have previously cut away 
the bandages of the day before. They're all pro- 
gressing very favourably. . . . Gee, but they're 
a funny crowd, those English ! Their peculiar 
idea of humour and their conversation is the limit. 
None of them can get over the fact that the Cana- 
dians get "four bob and a tanner" a day. In the 
bottom of their hearts, they think that is the main 
reason we join. Not in a million years could they 
grasp it that these — McGill men and all — are 
not ordinary working men like themselves. One 
fellow said today in his peculiar North Country 
accent : 

"T' Canadians ain't done nowt since Eeeps — 
ony road." And another, "Aai, and got fower 
bob a day for doing of it." 

Some are grateful for every little thing ; others 
won't even say thank you for every possible atten- 
tion. The only successful way to get on with 'em 
(and make 'em work) is to practise a philosophical 
kind of cheerful kidding manner. And, more you 



AT THE BASE 47 

have to kid yourself. If you let things worry you 
or take any notice of them when they kick, your 
life would be hell. . . . 

France, 29 February, '16. 

(Say, this is leap year, eh ?) 

(You may have wondered that, if we get only 
two green envelopes a month, how the dickens 
all of my letters come in these treasured recepta- 
cles. Answer — I buy 'em at half a franc per 
from the English Tommies and am charging it up 
to you. At present you owe me one fr. fifty.) 

My dearie : — 

It's afternoon. All the dishes — pots, I mean 
— are washed up, the ward swept and all looks 
clean and fresh and tidy. ... (I dunno whether 
I am disclosing information of military impor- 
tance to the enemy in the green envelope, if I tell 
you that this place was once a Jesuit College, very 
old apparently, with high walls round, and no 
modern conveniences till we came. It makes a 
fairly good hospital, I think.) . . . 

I think you'll be pleased to hear I am "making 
good" — if you can use such a large phrase in 
connection with such a small job. You must 
realize that only a short while ago I positively 
could not have done this work at all. I can't even 
now realize that it is me doing some of the things 
I have to do — and not kicking at it. I never 



48 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

even touched a wounded person before, but now I 
have — But wait, I'll tell you the proceedings. 
About ten a.m. the doctor (a captain) comes, puts 
on a white coat and rubber gloves, and prepares 
to do the dressings. First I go ahead to each bed 
and with a pair of scissors usually cut — or untie 
in some cases — the bandages from the first case 
he intends fixing up. These I chuck in a pail of 
water and between us the Sister and I hand the 
various dopes. When he is through, he moves to 
the next, and one of us bandages it up again. (I 
never put a bandage on before, but today I did 
nearly all.) While I was holding a particularly 
bad wound and fracture (to drop it would probably 
mean it would fall to pieces) I was congratulated 
on the way I did the work. The sight etc. close 
at one time, would have sickened me, but now my 
only feeling is one of interest. I don't think you 
have ever been in a surgical ward, have you? 
Everything has to be done with the minutest care, 
everything must be absolutely sterile. To put 
a pair of forceps, scissors, anything even, on the 
table makes it un-sterile and it cannot be used. 
Everything you hand the doctor, you hand with 
forceps. Your mind has to be on your job every 
fraction of the second; your nerves must be as 
steady as a rock. Can you see me doing it ? And 
doing it alright. Sister says she's going to give me 
all that kind of work she can. Of course the other 
orderly does this at any other time, but he is barred 



AT THE BASE 49 

out of the ward until quarantine is lifted. Of 
course, I do all the other work as well : clean up, 
dish out the meals — everything. I sure have 
landed myself on some job, yet I like it. 

I have more than once wanted to go up the 
line — and I want to tell you about it. Right 
now, I'd love to go. I have tried to analyse my 
feelings. I want to go up and see it all first hand, 
I know exactly what the work is — but I want to 
see it. — I do want to see you and Billy. That 
about explains it. Of course if I hadn't Bill and 
you, I would go tomorrow. But — I repeat — 
I want to come home. . . . 

As regards the actual work — I'm " doing my 
bit" more here than I would be there. 

By the way, I was comparing this Canadian 
Gen. Hosp. with the English one. They're 
utterly different. Here there are no visitors, no 
automobile rides, no shows. But — for arrange- 
ment, order, efficiency, Canada has 'em strung 
forty ways. There isn't any comparison. (After- 
wards you will see McGill come in for some pretty 
high praise. You see if I'm not right.) 

The Sisters and doctors are human — they 
treat the patients as men, that's one big differ- 
ence and a very big one. The grub is far better — 
the Tommies nearly had a fit to find two eggs to a 
meal. Every day there is a package of smokes 
for every man, and chocolate and fruit, all from 
Canadians at home. Most of the packages have 



50 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

ready addressed P.C.'s so that the fellows can 
thank the donors if they wish, and I have impressed 
it on them that they have got to be returned. The 
English Tommy is not much at writing to a 
stranger. Sometimes I write P.C.'s for fellows 
to their own people. Gee! it's pathetic. "I 
hope this finds you as it leaves me at present," 
etc. They are so different to Americans. Nearly 
all the eggs, for instance, have messages on them 
and addresses — quite a lot from girls' schools. 
Yet the fellows are too shy to drop a jolly card, 
I bet not one would go unanswered from the 
States. . . . 

10 March, '16. 
My dearest Lallie : — 

This will not be a long letter — just a note tell- 
ing you I am K.O. and everything going well with 
me. . . . 

Things are — I would have thought at one 
time — the limit ; but at times like these, and 
given a bunch who work together, the almost 
impossible can be done, if done with a will. 

We came out of quarantine K.O. No more 
cases of fever. All the boys were sent off to C.C. 
or B.D. (Base Details — waiting to go back 
up to the front.) Immediately we evacuated, 
we filled up, and I was still alone in two wards. 

I wish I might tell you the details, but I can't 
— not till Apres la Guerre. Sufficient maybe 



AT THE BASE 51 

when I say that the trenches are full of snow 
(you'll have seen the English picture papers), and 
I have had a ward full of men who, having taken 
a trench from the Germans, owing to certain con- 
ditions lost their trench waders in the slush and 
mud, and fought for thirty-six hours without any 
boots of any kind. Of course you will understand, 
without my giving you details about frozen feet. 
Even then we couldn't keep them — only a 
while. 

Believe me, it's hell up the line these days — 
and worse is to come. 

We haven't our water laid on in my ward yet, 
and it's upstairs as I told you. But, all the same, 
we have just everything else for the boys that you 
can imagine. The water w is my personal trouble. 
What I meant was the men get everything. Thank 
God, we give 'em all just the same : oranges, eggs, 
cigarettes. I wonder if the people who subscribe 
to those things in Canada realize how fine a work 
they're doing. The other day I sent out a ward 
full of men on stretchers, and all had bed socks 
and nearly all pyjamas — every blessed thing a 
gift from the Canadian Red Cross. Imagine, if 
you can, a man piled on a stretcher and trans- 
ferred from the warm ward to motor ambulance, 
taken through the town streets, then the boat — 
a bitterly cold crossing, then his long English 
train journey, then again motor ambulance and 
lastly his new bed in the English ward. Don't 



52 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

forget it — he suffers alright ! And to have given 
one blessed pair of bed socks, which have helped 
a fellow on such a trip, is something to comfort 
yourself with. 

The Sisters have sure gone some, too, recently 

— and are, this minute. I don't know how they 
do it and keep up. 

Today noon was the first day I have eaten at 
our mess for three weeks. Quarantine has been 
over for some days, but I haven't had time to quit 
for dinner or for tea — I've eaten standing up in the 
wards. I've been as much as three days without 
a decent wash. And yesterday I heard (genuine 
news) our work is to be increased one third. . . . 

But that is only the beginning. This war is 
going to go out, more terrific than it came in. 

And now I must beat it. About a million jobs 
await me. 

Always — understand — I am yours yours yours 

— my work is for you, I am for you. 

I am your boy and your husband, 

R. A. L. 

P.S. Kisses for Billie — our Billie eh ? She 
will kiss you for me — give her Dad's love. 

20 March, '16, France 1 a.m. 

This letter is sure disconnected alright, as I said 
it would be, but I will finish it off, and send it, be- 
cause for the next few days I can't write regularly. 



AT THE BASE 53 

The other night I turned out for convoy — 
luckily nothing doing in our ward, so I beat it for 
the "hay." I'd no sooner got to sleep, than out 
I was pitched, to go back and sleep in my ward. 
Once more I was quarantined — a new fever case. 
When I arrived, they took off the night man — 
and there I was, and am, alone in my glory with 
two wards full of " irrespressibles ", as Punch calls 
'em, to look after, and can't get out for days. I 
worked that night, all next day, and now I'm on 
again tonight — feeling a wee bit "dopey" for 
want of sleep. I have no night Sister, and no one 
can come up here. Fortunately everything is 
going swimmingly and there isn't much to do, but 
to take a few temperatures now and then, and look 
out for certain bandages slipping. At seven or 
eight a.m. I go to bed and will have a Sister (for 
days only) and she'll have to get patients to clean 
up, etc. I do seem to find it, don't I? How- 
ever, each night I'll be able to have a talk with 
you. I don't have any meals to get at night, 
only cocoa at eight p.m., and bread and butter; 
also there don't happen to be any important 
dressings. I even see where I'll be able to read 
a bit. For the last hour, I've been reading the 
Bystander, Sketch, and old newspapers, and al- 
together enjoying myself. At the end of the 
largest ward is my little kitchen — under the bare 
tiles I have a stove, electric light, and a collection 
of canned eats that would make your mouth water. 



54 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

It's on the kitchen table, on a writing pad that 
some kind person in Canada has sent for general 
hospital distribution, that I am writing this. I 
have the door open a bit so I can hear if all is K.O. 
in the ward (you'd think it wasn't). Wounded 
men talk a lot in their sleep. . . . 

"'Swinging the Lead" is English all over France 
for the boys who play sick when they are well, to 
try to get a few more days in Hosp. Down here, 
it is played quite openly, and is a joke. If the 
Sister "falls", well and good; if she is "wise", 
also well and good. Some get away with it, some 
don't ; but it's all in good part, as it can only go 
a few days at most. The boys "kid" one another 
openly in front of Sister or the Doctor about this, 
and sometimes it's very funny. 

22 March, '16. 
France, 12.30 at night. 
My dearest Lai : 

You say in your last letter, you feel blue. I 
often feel so blue for you and our Billie. But, 
dearie, hold on. This thing can't last, and we 
shall win, of course — so, — stick it, same as me. 

The convoy ambulances buzz, out of the win- 
dow, all the time. Oh, Lai, who would have 
thought such things could have been in our life, 
so short a time ago ! And yet — as you say — 
how fine to take a part, however humble ! And 
even I, surrounded by object lessons, don't begin 



AT THE BASE 55 

to comprehend how things are up the line. I 
think I know what things are like pretty well; 
but all the time I don't. I don't know a thing 
about the suffering, the monotony. The fight- 
ing is nothing; it's the continual working, the 
grind, grind, grind, and always the casualties, — 
always them. When I feel sleepy and inclined to 
kick, I think of these boys here in their beds, and 
the others on trains or ambulances or lying wait- 
ing in the mud, and then of you. . . . 

It's cold tonight, there's a tile or two out of my 
kitchen roof, and no matter how I keep the wee 
American stove Whoop-up (from coal which I have 
beside it in an American Can concern's box), it's 
shivery. I have also forty-seven men's dishes 
to wash before dawn, hot water to get, my own 
dinner to cook, lots of little things to look after 
for the bed patients — and the general look-out 
to keep. . . . 

1 a.m., 23 March, '16. 

I thought for sure I had something to say to you 
tonight yet somehow, though I am full to over- 
flowing with thoughts, I cannot put it — or them 
— into words. Again, as you see by the time 
above, I am writing just after everything is all 
nice and cozy in the wards, and I can at last get a 
minute alone with you. . . . 

Do you know, Lai, I feel — I feel sort of 
"washed out" — weary — words won't come. 



56 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

I guess I want a change or something. But it 
makes me so mad. When I am busy with my 
work, I hear or see something and I say to myself, 
now tonight I'll tell Lai that; but when "to- 
night" comes, I am all in, — and dispirited — and 
cannot find the energy to remember anything. 

Yet of course we shall win. The French and 
Ourselves are a victorious army. It's in the air. 
It's everywhere. The atmosphere speaks victory. 

Yet, — always remember — of course — it was 
the silent British navy that did it. That was the 
Ace of Trumps, — and it has not been played yet, 
though our opponents have known now, for a 
year, we held it, and it was the winning card. 

Have you seen Bairnsfather's book of cartoons ? 
Not in the same class as Raemaker's, of course ; yet, 
on the humorous side, awfully good in their way. 

Today I had three letters from patients who 
had gone back up the line. I am keeping them 
to show you — one Canuck, two English. It's 
good to feel they've remembered. If you know 
of any particular people who make a practice of 
sending cigarettes, and etc. to boys at the front, I 
can send addresses of men leaving here to go back, 
all the time. We issue cigarettes, etc. in the wards 
every day — practically all the packages contain 
addressed P.C.'s to the senders, and I know of a 
good many that have been sent back with thanks. 
It isn't so much here, though, that kind of thing 
counts ; but after they leave to go back up to the 



AT THE BASE 57 

trenches — that's when a fellow needs a pal, and 
we try to keep in touch. Canada has done splen- 
didly, from what I can see by the gifts that are 
passed through us ; but always there is the need 
of more. And now when we are coming to the 
final round, before the knock-out, I hope the 
energy will, if anything, be redoubled. 

What has gone before is as nothing to what is 
to come. . . . 

In South Africa, I worked hard, I thought; but 
just because I took a chance on my life, every 
other day, and was in the saddle hours on end, 
that wasn't real work. This is work, with no 
excitement — no relief — and withal no credit. 
Because at the showdown all our work will be for- 
gotten. But about all that I do not care. All 
I want is an end — to go home — to you, and to 
Billie — to play with Billie — I am tired — and 
I want you both. I want a little peace. 

But that's now. Tomorrow is another day. 
And no matter how many days of this are in store, 
good work shall be done — for you — in your 
name — by me. And with a jolly good heart. 

It's only sometimes — I'm tired. 

Darling — my heart goes out to you now. 

8.30 a.m., 29 March, '16. (Pay Day ! ! !) 

Good morning, Lai ! — 

This is an awful time to be writing a letter to 
one's wife — isn't it! Guess I must have got it 



58 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

bad, after a strenuous night, looking after two 
wards of wounded men all by my lonesome, to 
start in to write to a mere girl — and that girl — 
my wife — Ye Gods ! at nine a.m. of a morn- 
ing !.. . 

Say ! the other day you said that we were all 
getting better for the war and a lot of stuff like 
that (excuse the description) . I see where a large 
English Daily said that owing to the new stringent 
rules as to the supply of paper, they could no 
longer print the list of casualties in full. The 
next morning the paper appeared with about three 
inches of one column something like this: "Cas- 
ualties 600 — 200 Dead—" and that was all. 
The whole of the opposite page was devoted to 
sketches and descriptive matter of a new — restau- 
rant dinner gown ! O tempora ! O mores ! What 
a state of mind the people must have who run that 
paper. . . . 

By jove, I wish you could see some of the shops 
here ! They are just spiffing — especially the 
cake shops, "specialty" stores, and jewelers. If 
I had some money I could just buy the loveliest 
things for almost nothing — The French sure 
know how to make pretty jewelry and wrought 
metal things. 

Thanks to the British Navy, all the stores down 
town run just as usual. The flower shops do 
business, the meat stores have everything, also 
as before. In fact, you'd never know there was 



AT THE BASE 59 

a war on, if you didn't know. Also you never see 
a young man, and there are many widows. The 
Canucks are "0 ires bon — la la" believe me, with 
the Frenchies : more so than the other troops, for 
some reason. 

24 May, Empire Day. 
Dear Lai, — 

Today is Empire day — do you remember at 
school the old rhyme — "if you don't give us a 
holiday we'll all run away"? And later we 
called it Empire Day. I remember as kids we 
were always taught everywhere to know Queen 
Victoria as one of the most wonderful persons 
who ever lived — perfect type of woman and 
queen. But today I am afraid most of us know 
she was only a very silly old woman. Some one 
has recently published a book about her, and I 
suppose she's now dead long enough for the truth 
to be told without hurting any one very much. It 
appears she was always dead set against anything 
ever being suggested, even, to the detriment of 
Germany — thought the Kaiser a great friend of 
England, and in fact was altogether just about the 
opposite of everything we believed as children. 
As most everything is. I believe if King Edward, 
wasn't it? had had no children, "Big Bill" would 
have been King of England. Maybe I have it 
wrong, but anyhow it seems to have been a narrow 
squeak. 



60 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

I am getting most awfully keen on games and 
have developed into an ardent baseball fan. There 
is a league : other Canadian Hosps, A.S.C. etc. 
We have a great team. . . . 

I was glad to hear S had joined the Sig- 
nallers and not the Engineers. It is a much better 
corps for him in every way. You ask what they 
do. Well, of course, all that flag-wagging which 
he will be doing now ceases when he gets out here, 
though they might do a good bit of it in Shorn- 
cliffe. (Imagine how long it would take Fritz 
to pick off a flag-wagger, when it isn't safe to show 
a finger over a parapet !) It will, however, put 
him aufait with the code, and help if he should be 
needed on the telegraph instruments. What he 
will do, will depend altogether on the circum- 
stances — luck — and proficiency. If I were he, 
I would study the telegraph instrument hard — 
wireless, too, if he could. Most signalling is done 
by telegraph. ... A lot of his work will be 
fixing telegraph lines and some are used as "run- 
ners." It's a nice decent job all round, and he'll 
meet a lot of decent young fellows. Yes, I guess 
he's wild — a bit. He tends that way, and of 
course coming here won't improve him. It would 
be lucky if he could land a stripe. Then the little 
responsibility might steady him; but he's rather 
young for that. Shorncliffe will do him much 
harm, as they are not so strict there. I suppose 
he'll take his leave in London — and all the rest 



AT THE BASE 61 

of it. He'll just have to take his chance, and 
have a fling with the rest. If I had a boy, I 
shouldn't try to stop him. I'd tell him the risks 

— and leave it to him. S will come out 

alright, I firmly believe. When he comes to 
France, things are different; all the rough stuff 
must go. A "drunk" only draws 28 days No. 1 
Field Punishment — with the horrors of being 
tied up every day. That you may have heard 
of. You are in the B.E.F. then, not the C.E.F. 

Later. 

The baseball game was just great, we had two 
generals in the bleachers, but again we got licked. 
I wish you could see one of the games — the 
grounds surrounded with the blue hospital coats 
and the Sisters' uniforms. The Sisters are good 
rooters, believe me. The rooting takes a more 
personal tone than in regular games and includes 
a man's personal appearance — his uniform — 
his work — any old thing at all so long as we may 
get his goat. The utmost keenness is shown by 
every one. I'm afraid the cricket eleven takes 
a very back seat ; baseball has the whole show. 

6 June, '16. 

If you recall the news in the papers during these 
last few days, you'll remember a few things hap- 
pened to the Canucks up the line — hence no 
time for letters or anything else but work. Things 



62 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

were sure enough lively for the Pats and the 2d 
C.M.R's. according to the stories brought down. 

By the way, I saw some Signallers amongst 
them, the first I've seen come in — at least the 
first I've noticed. . . . 

One was attached permanently, owing to deaf- 
ness caused by shell fire. 

It appears a Signaller has the grand-stand view 
of the war in more or less safety. He sits all day, 
and all night too I suppose, in a steel-covered 
dugout. Over his head is strapped a telephone 
head-piece and he receives messages all the time. 
That's all they do, lucky beggars ! I wish I were 
in that corps — they'll see all the show. I see 
them come out after it's over and am told about 
the "turns", secondhand. 

By you get this, the sea battle will be old stuff. 
Already maybe you know more than I do, but to 
sum up the main events so far for these months, 
namely this battle — a mistake has been made in 
letting Germany get in her story to the world first. 

Victors do not run away. Germany did. 
Beatty held their main fleet till our main fleet 
came up, and therefore suffered heavily. He 
prevented their gaining their object; that's all, 
as we had it here. . . . 

I'm on a new job which has, as some of its ad- 
vantages, two afternoons a week and quit daily 
at 4 p. m. Active service — I dont think. Church- 
ill was right, and there should be an alteration 



AT THE BASE 63 

as to what constitutes a fighting unit. Convales- 
cents should be doing our work — and the ma- 
jority of us should be up the line. I am perfectly 
willing to go at any time, but transfers are for- 
bidden ; so many had been asked for that a General 
Order came out prohibiting it, excepting in very 
special cases. 

10 June, '16. 
Dear Lai, — 

We are all to be inoculated again twice. Con- 
founded nuisance. My turn is tonight, then 
again in ten days. ... In Canada and England, 
a great fuss is made about forty-eight hours after 
you're "shot in the arm", but that doesn't go in 
France, like a jolly lot of other things. At five 
tonight I am going to see the keenest baseball 
game ever. A match has been arranged with 
the other No. 3 Can. Hosp. . . . It's a perfect 
day — and I feel fairly busting with good health 
and the joy of being alive. 

Now and then something comes down the line 
in the way of an extraordinary wound. This 
morning, they drew — with the magnet — part of 
a Ross rifle bayonet out of a man's shoulder. How 
did it get there? Shell explosion blew it in, I 
guess. Maybe it was his own bayonet, maybe 
some other fellow's in another part of the trench. 

Do you realize how much goes on in this hos- 
pital? The operating room has four tables. A 



64 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

fair day's work for one doctor is thirty operations. 
Two stretchers do nothing all day but carry cases 
to the X-Ray room to locate the exact position 
of the piece of shell or bullet. Then there are the 
medical cases. The last few convoys, I have 
carried a fair sprinkling of Trench Fever cases. 
While on the subject of "patients" — you know 
our men now have steel helmets. Well, when 
you see one with a hole in it, and hear an 
accompanying "story", don't be too, too awe- 
struck. It may have been stood on a parapet 
for Fritz to make a souvenir of it. Gee, what 
yarns we shall hear after this war ! 

16 June, '16. 
My dearest Lai, — 

I left off, I believe, where I was to be inoculated. 
I had plans of "swinging the lead" and sneaking 
down to the Y for a long talk with you, a nice 
quiet read, and altogether a nice easy old day all 
to myself. Well, "the best laid schemes." The 
inoculation part was all O. K., done with "neat- 
ness and despatch"; but next day, instead of 
coming down here and having a nice easy time, 
I was so "all in " I just couldn't get out of bed. . . . 
It took every one the same way, which for some 
reason comforts me a little. There's another 
one coming in ten days. 

Well — you "compray" the date of this letter. 

I suppose your papers are working overtime 



AT THE BASE 65 

to get issues out — once again the Canucks have 
had it at Ypres. . . . 

And say, Lai, the third battle of Ypres — an 
old story when you get this — was not — is not, 
as it's on now — like the first or the second. An 
artillery fellow told me he couldn't hear his gun 
fire because of the bursting shells sent over by 
Fritz — not just for a minute, mind, but for 
forty-eight hours. How anything lived in the 
front line, I dunno : but the Canucks got back all 
they lost, and more to it besides. Gee, it's amaz- 
ing ! If you could see and hear what I do, you 
wouldn't believe. They've shelled Ypres town 
again, and bust the Cloth Hall for fair, this time. 

The general opinion seems to be that the troops 
against them in this scrap are nothing like those 
in the battle last year — lots of young kids, and 
many with no heart. The officers are as good, 
though. One German officer, captured by a 
fellow I carried, killed or wounded four Canuck 
officers before getting knocked out and captured 
himself. Of course our men would have killed 
him, but didn't have an opportunity. Only when 
things are very quiet or very very busy are 
prisoners taken. 

There's a man, an Englishman, works here. He 
was taken prisoner by the Germans. When 
captured, he had a tin of bully and some biscuits 
on him. Fritz first ate these, cutting the biscuits 
into very thin slices and making sandwiches with 



66 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

the bully beef, enjoying the feed — he told me — ■ 
with the greatest satisfaction. Afterwards, they 
took every single stitch of clothing off him and 
turned him loose. When about fifty to one hun- 
dred yards away, they all took pot shots at him 
with their rifles ; but he got off with only a few 
slight wounds, wandered three days and three 
nights till he fell in with one of our working parties. 
He's been no use ever since. . . . They did the 
same thing to a large party of a certain Scotch 
regiment, killing many. That regiment has taken 
no prisoners since. This is perfectly true. 

Sunday Afternoon, 18 June, '16. 
My dear Lai, — 

I suppose I don't have to tell you to make you 
understand what's doing; your newspapers are 
telling you daily. . . . You know ten times more 
about this, the third battle of Ypres, than I do; 
true I have heard a hundred first-hand stories, 
but by men who are not exactly out on observa- 
tion tours, men who have been chiefly concerned 
in keeping alive. One sidelight — I have heard 
it estimated that Fritz put over in six hours 
roughly £100,000 — $500,000.00 — worth of shells. 
I dunno', of course how accurate, or non-accurate, 
that is ; but I don't imagine it can be far out. 

Nothing now matters but care of the wounded. 
Night is the same as day for most of us ; yet there 
is no extra fuss or bother, only a patient, instead 



AT THE BASE 67 

of staying here awhile, is evacuated to England 
almost right away. Maybe he spends a night or 
two, not more. 

Saturday, 24 June, '16. 

. . . The weather here is most unsettled and 
must make plans, at any rate for air recon- 
naissance and so forth up the line, most difficult 
to arrange. There has been some more fighting 
up in the salient, though things have slackened 
off a bit, I think, from the fierce fighting of what 
is now called the third battle of Ypres. We, at 
any rate, are not so busy, although things are not 
slack by any means. You'll remember gas was 
used again, and we got a fair proportion of those 
cases. The cough they have is like no other 
cough you ever heard — not dry or hard, but as 
if their throats were full of froth of some sort. 
It's fearful. . . . 

I wish I could see some way of getting out of 
this unit before the fall. Every one is getting out 
some way, mostly commissions. Both our ser- 
geant-majors are going — a sergeant-major either 
makes a unit a great one, or puts it on the bum as 
far as the fellows are concerned. Luckily we have 
had two of the best in France ; but when they go, 
I see everything going wrong. 

21 July, '16. 

Well — comprey the date of this — I read 
your letters, between carrying stretchers, Sat 



68 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

on a stretcher in the road opposite the Receiving 
Room. My life now (I couldn't tell you before) 
is just one long stretcher carrying. Night and 
day are just the same; there is no break; the 
hum of the ambulance is with you all the time. 
Try to imagine the scene — remember the early 
articles we read together in 1914, of the wounded 
in the hospitals anywhere — everywhere — how 
you step over them — how they put them just 
any place. This big hospital is not a general 
hospital now, but a Clearing Station. Get that ? 
The recreation hall is full of beds. Every place 
is full of beds, and the "walkers" — Lord, they're 
everywhere ! There is a difference though, in 
1916. In 1914 we were retreating. And now we 
are advancing. Then the hospitals were not 
prepared; now everything moves like clockwork. 
Nothing is missing, the whole thing is a marvel of 
efficiency. Hundreds of times a day I wish you 
could see it. . . . 

Later. 

I guess I didn't ought to continue this letter 
just now, as I am about all in, and still have twelve 
hours ahead. All afternoon we have "received" 
and "evacuated" — sometimes in some wards 
both at the same time, till you are in danger of 
picking up a stretcher which has just come and 
sending him to Blighty by mistake. {He would 
worry — not !) 



AT THE BASE 69 

These are the days when Fritz is trying to re- 
gain the trenches he lost to the British. In one 
case, fellows have told me that three whole divi- 
sions came up to recapture one line of trenches 
held by one division of British. Imagine it — not 
battalions — divisions. They got 'em, too, in this 
instance, though even as I write, I guess, we have 
taken them again. It's all too stupendous for 
me to describe. — corpses three deep — one can't 
realize it even when the stories are told by men 
with their wounds running blood. 

One thing impressed me : though this rush is 
something hardly to be believed if not seen, so 
perfect is the organization that I noticed each man 
got his extras — his oranges, his cigarettes, just 
the same. Another thing; those I have carried 
— Lord knows how many even in these months — 
I have never heard one complain. Indeed all are 
cheery even, and always endeavour to crawl off 
the stretcher on to the bed, when you reach the 
ward — with the inevitable cigarette. 

As usual the "Walkers" look the worst. 

Do you remember my once telling you about 
the pale mud on them all — generally from head 
to foot — how I noticed it much more in the 
winter and how it was missing in the summer? 
Well, I noticed it again today, and it appears that 
when this division were defending the captured 
German trenches, Fritz by some means flooded 
through with water three deep. 



70 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

One other thing : during the winter and before 
the "push", all the patients came down fairly 
neatly bandaged and washed. Now the blood 
stays where it is — except on the wound — and 
mud and blood are congealed together all over a 
man. If we're busy, what about the Dressing 
Stations who send to all the hospitals ? 

22 July, '16 (Lunch time). 

Just got up after strenuous night. Last train 
didn't come down till four-thirty a.m. so had a 
little sleep, and in half an hour am going to work 
again. Some Canadians are beginning to come 
in now. However, it hasn't been Canada that 
supplied us with patients, but Anzacs. Last 
night Princess Victoria's concert party came. I 
was able to get relieved for an hour to go to it. 
I couldn't help thinking how you would have felt 
the extraordinary contrast — pretty, well-dressed 
girls — flowers — music — and all around tired- 
out staff and hundreds upon hundreds of patients 
all fresh from the front line. 

The thing that interested me as much as any- 
thing — you'd never guess — in the morning I 
had your letter where a paragraph or two dwelt 
on the new fashions. It may seem curious, but 
we never see any well-dressed women — or rather 
I should say fashionably-dressed women. It's 
curious that, in a town like Boulogne; but the 
French are taking this war in desperate earnest. 



AT THE BASE 71 

In appearance they are chic and neat, very, but 
not fashionable — if the women's pages in the 
magazines are anything to go by. However, the 
majority seem to me to wear that large mourning 
veil you may have noticed in war pictures. There- 
fore this party, just after having your letter, was 
interesting as a side line for that reason. I love 
pretty clothes. The Americans ' skirts were to 
me — remember I haven't been in London or 
anywhere for months — something of a shock. 
To be frank, I don't like short skirts as they wear 
'em now at all. I think they aren't even pretty. 

A point which would have brought the war 
home to you — right in the middle of the show, 
an officer got on the stage and said, — "Will all 
men here marked Blighty return to their wards 
at once and prepare to leave." 

Much joshing occurred, as the men, bandaged 
here, there, and everywhere, straggled out, — 
the big joke being to tell those on crutches to 
double up. 

23 July, '16. (Sunday afternoon) 

My ownest Lallie, — 

.... Yesterday afternoon I was moving 
what we horribly call stiffs into the ambulances 
which take them to the morgue downtown — 
where they are buried in a cemetery here, French 
on one side of the road, English on the other — 
men with white crosses, officers brown — men 



72 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

three in a grave, officers one. Each coffin is 
numbered in case relatives wish to claim the body 
after the war. I detest the job ; it seems to me 
most pitiful : these poor things pinned in a white 
sheet with a label round their neck, with name and 
particulars on. A while ago this was a man — a 
man whom somebody who does not even know 
he is dead is thinking of, talking of. It always 
makes me think what awful fools we are to detest 
one another, and to do nasty things and to say 
nasty things, when we shall all so soon be just like 
that. I believe it would be a good thing if, when 
we contemplate meanness, we could be shown a 
dead body. It seems so silly — such "bad busi- 
ness" — not to get all the good out of life, when 
the thing is so short and particularly when we 
know for a positive fact that we shall all soon be 
just a lump of lifeless stuff of no account any more. 
Isn't it funny we don't realize death more ? Gee, 
but you and I have jolly few things to kick at ! I 
thought that ever so strong, when I was tucking 
the Union Jack around those fellows. 

I don't think I was meant to be a soldier. 

12 August, '16. 

The heat is fearful, a close, clammy kind of 
heat, and my work entails funny hours : from 
6 a.m. to 6. p.m. with breaks in between just at 
inconvenient times for writing. . . . 

You asked about Biggs. He went downtown, 



AT THE BASE 73 

the other day, and never came back. English 
and French police searched for a deserter, or a 
dead body in the sea. In about a week, when 
every one had quite given up hope, he calmly 
writes from up the line, if you please, that he met 
some boys from Vancouver going up to reinforce 
a battalion in the trenches, and he joined them 
and is at present in the front line. Can you beat 
it? The colonel is raving, and now comes the 
interesting point of military law : can a man desert 
into the trenches? What looked like a tragedy 
has developed into a huge farce. No one has ever 
heard of a similar case. The only point is that, if 
nothing is done about him, others will be doing 
it. It would be an awful joke if he got a Blighty 
one and came here as a patient en route; wouldn't 
it? 

A coincidence — have just put into an am- 
bulance, en route for Blighty, a pair of twins — 
joined together — wounded together — here in 
same ward together — and now gone away to- 
gether. 

I daresay you know — have heard frequently 
— that the army is the one original place for wild 
rumours. I have always refrained from telling 
you any before; but I'll break a rule tonight. 
You know the R.A.M.C. has moved all the fit 
men from hospital work and are using RB. or 
permanent base men, the fit men being sent on 
more strenuous work up the line, We have heard 



74 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

repeatedly that the C.A.M.C. was going to do 
the same, but so far nothing has been done. I 
was talking to our O.C. to-day. He told me that 
all fit men were being taken from here. What 
that means in detail I don't know — but I 
wouldn't want you to hear suddenly that we had 
all been moved up the line. It is quite possible 
that all of us who are able will be put to work 
at more general usefulness — which is sound com- 
mon sense, as you will be bound to agree. You 
will hear of course immediately I know anything 
definite. 

Did I tell you we had formed an orchestra 
here? It is developing finely, every one says. 
The boys pay half the cost of the instruments, 
and after the war they have them. Last night 
they played for a couple of hours, and I could 
hardly believe they were all learners, a month 
or so ago. 

What must be the general make-up of a person's 
mind, who collects, packs and mails all the way 
from Canada a parcel of "literature" for the boys 
in France — consisting of Literary Digests dated 
1912 ? I see some one has done it here. Queer, 
eh? 

This story is true. When a man dies, his effects 
are sent to his parents. A boy died here, his 
simple things were sent home. An indignant 
letter came back to this effect, — 

"I gave my boy. You have had him — 



AT THE BASE 15 

why steal his things? Where are the pair 
of gloves and the tin of zinc ointment I sent 
him?" 

Monday. 

.... Our speculations about Biggsy and 
what was to become of him were settled the other 
day by his arriving in the charge of a couple of 
military police. I saw him in our little "coop" 
— which is a wee room, probably some old monk's 
private room, 'way up under the tiles. He just 
looked fine and was all enthusiasm. I got about 
the first intelligent "fresh" description of the line 
I've had. It appears when he went downtown, he 
met a couple of friends, and possibly over a few 
drinks (though Biggsy does not overdo it at any 
time) the three of them must have imagined them- 
selves back in the States and decided to beat it 
to the front line. Only any one who has been in 
France will realize the absolute, colossal impu- 
dence of such an adventure ; and, maybe for this 
very reason, it succeeded. Not once in ten 
million times could it have come off; but it did 
this time. Not a motor truck, not a wagon can 
move a mile without being inspected, even down 
here; and every yard you approach the firing 
line, things get stricter. Nevertheless, by climb- 
ing on a rock train and hiding in the rocks, they 
made it. When they got to the reserve trenches, 
they enquired for the particular battalion where 



76 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Biggsy had friends, and eventually found it, 
calmly marched up to the Major's dugout (he 
was a pal of Biggsy's) and told their story. They 
were sick of the base, couldn't get transferred to a 
fighting unit, so just came up, and there they 
were ! Biggs says the Major couldn't quite grasp 
it, couldn't seem to get the thing at all, and no 
wonder ! However, he fed 'em, put 'em under 
open arrest, and near became a casualty through 
laughing. They were given duty — till the escort 
arrived. The things Biggsy told us would make 
a rattling good short story — but there is no space 
here to tell you much. One thing made me laugh : 
he was determined to have a look "over the top", 
if it killed him : — and it nearly did. Fritz didn't 
understand his peculiar case, and a sniper nearly 
finished the whole thing. The main thing that 
impressed him were the rats. 

It appears they positively refuse to get out of 
the way — just march about the trenches, stop, 
turn round and look at you. They are every- 
where. His trench was under shell fire all the 
time — He says it's great ! ! ! ! When the escort 
came, they brought him back another way, so 
he has really seen more places and towns than a 
fellow would who went up legitimately. 

At his trial, he was charged with so many days' 
absence, and he's now languishing — or rather 
working more than particularly hard — doing 
fourteen days' field punishment No. 1. . . . 



AT THE BASE 77 

Next day. 

There is more than a rumour that this par- 
ticular hospital is to move to England. It ap- 
pears our doctors have long been annoyed that 
they cannot see the result of their treatment and 
operations, as no sooner a man arrives than he is 
shipped to England — or back up the line, if he 
is soon well enough. I imagine that their wishes 
carry some weight, and there doesn't seem much 
doubt the Unit will be moved this fall. 

Now I haven't the slightest wish in the world 
to go to England. I am sick of this, I'll admit; 
but only in that I am sick of a base hospital, so I 
have tried to engineer a transfer to No. 1 Casualty 
Clearing Station. They are located at Bailleul, 
which you see on your map is a few miles back 
of the trenches. It will be more interesting — 
more real work. 

This is a good unit, one of the best in France; 
but — I don't much fancy life in England. I'd 
feel all the time I'd be better at home, or in France, 
anywhere but Home Service. 

I don't know, of course, if I shall be able to 
make the transfer. It's the hardest thing in the 
world to do, for some reason; every obstacle is 
put in a man's way. But I think I may make it, 
and I really hope I do. 

* Don't be silly and think, because Bailleul looks 
on the map as if it were "right up", it is. It's 



78 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 



located like this, /"^ — \^X and protected by 




hills. Naturally such a large clearing station (or 
rather stations, as I understand that they have 
recently made arrangements to accommodate the 
enormous number of one hundred thousand 
wounded) would not be in danger of shell fire. 

It has another good feature : the Clearing 
Station Units will go home before the General 
and Stationary Hosps. — and, even if it were 
only five minutes sooner, it would be worth it. 

A fellow came in, last night, with a fractured 
leg. He came down with a busted aeroplane 
from a height of two thousand feet. The officer 
was killed. It seems a tall story : but it was 
particularly marked on his "wound card" and 
the Royal Flying Corps would not make the 
statement, if it were not true. . . . 

I have got another green envelope. My very 
much delayed inoculation positively takes place 
tomorrow night, without fail, and as the dose is 
bigger'n ever this time, no doubt I shall be a sick 
woman the following day, and not even in the 
humour to write to the dearest one in the world. 

Evening, Friday, 25 August, '16. 

It's raining and one can feel autumn coming on. 
The nights are pretty cool, and darker earlier. 
A month today, it's your birthday. Maybe I'll 
be up at Bailleul — I hear they have aeroplane 



AT THE BASE 79 

fights there every day. It's a headquarters for 
some sort of 'planes, and as soon as Fritz comes 
sailing into view, up whirls one of ours and a scrap 
ensues. Must be a great sight, eh? I've seen 
lots of German aeroplanes and watched the shoot- 
ing at them by the French anti-aircraft guns. 
It's exciting, but I guess the other is more so. 

Last night, they put the lights out about nine 
p.m. A Zepp. was over the sea; but, as she 
headed for England, they switched 'em on again 
in about half an hour. Doesn't it seem remark- 
able how they follow them along, and time them 
to a second ? The wonder is more are not brought 
down. The war news today is nothing startling. 

Thursday (evening). 

Today is the day we receive the wounded from 
these first big counter attacks Fritz is making — 
and there are not a few. Guess I've got an all- 
night session ahead. I took one fellow to a ward, 
who had been buried two days and blown out 
again by a shell. He says Fritz is surrendering 
very freely because they are going to make one 
tremendous counter attack and get back all the 
lost ground. This wonderful act is going to take 
place in about seven days, I hear, and evidently 
one or two of 'em have heard the slogan "safety 
first" (Oh, by the wa} 7 , you may not have heard 
it, yet, though) and decided our English prison 
camp looks good to 'em. Don't blame 'em. 



80 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Later. 

Did you read of Fritz shelling the hospital at 
Bethune? It's quite true; a lot of doctors went 
from here to take the places of those killed. One 
fellow who was wounded is here. A shell actually 
dropped in an operating room, and killed doctors, 
Sisters and patients. 

Altogether Fritz is fighting very "dirty" just 
now — very. All are agreed on that. All those 
tales you read about their dugouts are true. 
They have electric lights and everything, and 
have undoubtedly figured on their line being im- 
pregnable. However, it isn't, by a long way. 
All the boys are agreed that the Germans, taken 
on the average, will not stand up when it comes 
to a show-down ; though they are tremendously 
clever with artillery and have unlimited am- 
munition and machine guns. 

I see you got a letter from little B . He 

says we had good times together? Well, I'm 
glad he enjoyed 'em. I never saw him after he 
left the hospital, and I rather think his times with 
the girls are imaginary, as I heard he went up the 
line almost immediately. As a matter of fact, 
girls in France don't have much to do with the 
English soldiers. It would be hard for you to 
realize, living where you can go where you like, 
do what you like, etc., that neither the French 
people nor we can do anything or go anywhere 



AT THE BASE 81 

without permission. For instance, there are no 
autos other than military, and a few taxis. You 
can't go for a walk or a drive — civilians or mili- 
tary. Every few streets has its barrier with the 
sign " Arrete" and two French soldiers with fixed 
bayonets. Every one must have a pass to go 
anywhere. You can't take a room, or go to an 
hotel, without the Secret Service are on you right 
away, and require your complete history. You 
cannot enter France at all, without all kinds of 
passports — but harder again is it to get out. 
There is no such thing as a man or woman taking 
a trip to a near-by town, or going on a holiday, or 
anything like that. Everything gives place to 
the war, and the French, to my mind, have this 
business of running a town under military law to 
a science. You cannot stand a moment on a 
bridge, you must be off the streets at 8.30 p.m. 
The docks and all stores and so forth are sur- 
rounded with barbed wire and French and English 
police with revolvers or fixed bayonets, and the 
place is alive with plain clothes secret service men. 
Active service is ruthless, and there is no con- 
sideration. 

7 September, '16. (Sunday Evening) 

. . . It is a fearful day, just pouring down with 
rain, tons of it, in true European autumn style. 
It was the same all last night, and I guess will 
be the same till about next July. It will be 



8£ A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

terrible, if it's the same all up the line — and I 
guess it is. Also I suppose it will cause a halt 
in the "move." I wonder if you at all realize 
what an amazing, wonderful thing this move is, 
realize that the Germans with all their so-called 
thoroughness and their thorough understanding 
of war according to their own rules made by 
themselves, having for eighteen months prepared 
a position, we have gone and walked right over 
it — manufactured machinery and trained the 
men to do it. Remember not one mistake has 
been made, not one. Have you ever thought, 
supposing all our carefully thought-out plans, our 
reliance on the morale of our new troops : any 
one tiny thing had gone wrong, all the world today 
would be saying that we were gone coons ; that 
we could not beat the Germans at their own game ; 
that the sooner we quit and got the best peace 
terms we could, the better. Instead, not one 
thing has gone wrong. Our amateur soldiers 
have proved as good as trained men, brought up 
to breathe the very idea of a victorious war. 
Our machinery has stunned the enemy. All the 
German ideas of artillery have been outdone. In 
the air we have absolute supremacy, our men even 
coming down to fire on troops with their machine 
guns. Only the other day, one came down to 
engage an anti-aircraft battery that was bother- 
ing him — surely the height of cool courage. 
Now we have invented a "land battleship"; I 



AT THE BASE 83 

have spoken to a boy who was near one that went 
into action ; he said all the Germans in the mine 
crater it advanced on, threw their rifles in a 
heap and stuck up their hands. 

All this is being done without any "fright ful- 
ness." There are signs that Germany is "getting 
wise." And when she does, we may hear of some 
inside news that might hasten the end. We do 
not know yet what kind of a loser the German is 
en viasse, but I have a hunch he will not make a 
good one. 

But to return to the beginning as I said : 
supposing just one calculation of ours had gone 
wrong, we would all be feeling it differently 
today. It annoys me when I think people are 
taking it all for granted ; it sounds kind of "Ger- 
man." We are super-men, sort of; we can 
imagine people saying, — "Of course, I always 
knew we should win." What rot ! No one knew 
we should win. No one knows how near we may 
have been to losing at various times, and now to 
take it all in that self-satisfied, I-told-you-so 
way, is — well — horrid. 

The boys who come down hourly don't say 
"I told you so"; they know beating Fritz is no 
cinch. They say he is outclassed, is getting 
weak. They know we are winning, because — 
we have worked for it ; our soldiers are men, not 
machines. They know we are better led, our 
artillery is superior — in a word we are better 



84 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

men than Fritz. Moreover, our cause is the 
right one. 

Later — and I don't know what I intended to 
say in that sentence. 

However I haven't much time. You will under- 
stand that. The boys up the line don't take 
prisoners by the several hundred and reinforce 
concrete machine gun emplacements without more 
than a few getting put out of mess for a while, 
and the greater the activity up there, the more 
we are kept busy down here. 

I was with you in spirit on your birthday, all 
day, and at night my head was on your little 
cushion, and your photographs were underneath 
it — yours and the young You, our Bill. 

Never, never get low-spirited, down-and-outed. 
You won't, I know. It's only a mood when you 
are, and passes in a day. We have no reason, 
either you or I, to be down-hearted. We cannot 
claim this war as a reason — else half the world 
would be. Yet, what else have we to complain 
of? Are we not well and fit? Have we not all 
we could wish to build on, the will to do it, and 
the brains ? All is well with our world. . . . 

In you, I have all I need — all I want. 

Dearie Lai — Good night. 



Ill 

UP THE LINE 



Ill 

UP THE LINE 

9 November, '16. 
France. 
My very dearest Lai, — 

The last letter I wrote was the green envelope 
one, two or three days ago. We have been partic- 
ularly busy one way and another ; one thing, we 
have moved from the convent into billets in 
small cottages. It's very funny; there's a long 
row of cottages by the coal mine, just cheap, 
rather sordid-looking places all exactly alike, 
same as the rows of small houses you see in Eng- 
land. Each has a small back room on the ground 
floor just eight feet by twelve feet in which ten 
men live somehow. The people who live in the 
rest of the house you never see, as they lock the 
connecting door. One backyard for each com- 
pany is used as a cook house, and at meal times 
you file over with your mess tin. Of course, 
some houses are better than others, cleaner; 
and maybe one is lucky enough to get the French 
people to boil coffee in the morning and odd things 
like that, but those places are very rare. Mostly 

87 



88 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

all the people are phlegmatically indifferent, and 
don't seem to take any interest in their own lines, 
any more than any one else. It's rather a good 
thing we are so closely packed, as, the floor being 
brick and the places fearfully draughty, you have a 
better chance of keeping warm at night. The 
weather is awful ; dull, heavy skies, rain most of 
the time, and mud. We'd be wet all the time, 
but we got an old can, punched holes in it, and 
have made a brazier for the room. It's remark- 
able what a difference a little fire makes. 

The other night, we went on a working party 
up close to the lines. You wear your tin hat on 
these expeditions, and go at night. After you've 
walked six miles or more, the latter part with a 
shovel and maybe a pick as well, you feel as though 
you had enough, even before you start the night's 
work. On the way, we passed through a fair- 
sized village, every single house which I saw being 
shattered, the church in the square just having 
the four walls standing. Of course wrecked 
villages have become monotonous ; but when you 
see one first, the desolation and waste of it all 
strikes you very forcibly. A thing I noticed 
particularly was that, at a cross road where all 
the corner houses were smashed flat, a little 
wayside shrine, like you see in every village, with 
its large crucifix was absolutely untouched. I 
hear this is very common all along the line. 
Curious, isn't it? When we arrived this far, the 



UP THE LINE 89 

flare lights sent up by Fritz and ourselves were very 
bright, and looked only about a block away ; but of 
course they were much more. These are sent up 
continually all along the line, playing in the air over 
"No Man's Land" for a few seconds, lighting up 
everything very distinctly. Quite a little firework 
display ; but you don't think of it that way. 

Our work was digging a narrow trench to put a 
water pipe into the front line. They have had it 
all along; but recently the frost froze it up, so 
the engineers wanted it buried a couple of feet. 
We all strung out and were given twenty feet 
apiece to dig. I guess you would have thought it 
rather weird, digging away there in the dark, in 
the distance machine guns tapping away exactly 
like woodpeckers. They loose off a few rounds 
every few minutes on roads, and where they 
think there might be working, or ration parties 
like ours ; also now and then you hear the sharper 
crack of a solitary rifle — a sniper at work ; but 
you hardly notice these things. You are too busy 
with your bit of work and getting home again. 
By the time you have done the return march you 
feel as though you had done a pretty good night's 
job, the march being by far the hardest part. 

Sunday (evening). 

This morning we were out on the range. I did 
fairly well at rapid firing, but rotten at the other 
part where you take your time. Later, we were 



90 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

at the bombing school — live bombs, now, of 
course. This evening we get paid — fifteen 
francs. Hardly a fortune, is it ? But enough to 
buy two decent feeds, anyway. While on that 
subject, I cannot impress on you too forcibly the 
importance of parcels, regularly and often. Down 
at Boulogne, a parcel of eats didn't amount to 
much; but up here they are just Godsends, 
absolutely. Down there, if you wanted anything 
nice you could get almost anything from a Sister 
or an orderly, but here the rations are the same 
every day, and awfully monotonous ; cheese, 
jam, stew — that's all. And lots of hard work 
all the time. Most boys get parcels very often 
indeed, and naturally your own crowd all share 
up alike. Last night, one of us got a cake, 
chocolate, cafe au lait, etc., and sitting round the 
old brazier we were quite happy for a time. 
Even if you had a lot of money, you couldn't 
buy much, not in a small village like this. There 
are Y's, of course; but they are too far away, 
when you come in late at night and tired. . . . 
By the way, will ^ou find out if there are any books 
on the subject of trench first-aid? It will have 
to be some that were written since the war of 
course. The first-aid books generally sold are 
no good for up the line, as they don't take account 
of conditions under which the work has to be done. 
If you find anything that you think may be of 
use, I should like to have it. 



UP THE LINE 91 

Let me know that you are happy and well. 
Remember, always, I am yours. 

— Battalion Canadians B.E.F. 
France, 13 November, '16. 

My very dearest Laly — 

This morning we arrived at our destination 
behind the lines. We didn't do anything but 
loaf around today after we arrived, and tonight I 
discovered this Y. about two kilometres from our 
billets, so I could write to you. First, dear, you 
will be glad to hear I am particularly well — 
couldn't be better. Things seem to improve all 
round as the days go by. We are billeted in a 
school, have two blankets — quite ample — each, 
and the grub is first rate. Havre is like a bad 
dream already. The train journey also improved. 
There was more room after each change, and the 
weather is lovely. Boulogne, on looking back 
on it, seems more of a slothful existence every 
day; no contrast could be greater than the life 
there and here. Of course no fit man, not having 
special training for particular work necessitating 
his staying at the base, has any right there 
at all, in my opinion. This is most certainly 
my place. 

All along in the journey, I tried to collect 
impressions to give you, and I cannot help but 
smile when I think what they were. . . . On 



92 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

the whole trip, I don't think I ever heard the 
war mentioned. There was a poker game at 
each end of the box car which seemed to be the 
greatest attraction. The conversation was mostly 
kicking on the room, the grub, the army in 
general — every one in the army kicks all the 
time. As we approached the line, the guns be- 
came audible and I am half ashamed to say I 
felt a thrill. No one else even mentioned them. 
Even right here in what is, in manner of speaking, 
only a stone's throw from the firing line, life is 
more peaceful than in Boulogne. Kids play in 
the streets ; the shops are lighted up — dimly — 
but still lit; this afternoon I heard "school" 
going on in part of the building in which we are 
billeted. The only difference I can see in the 
traffic — to that of the base — is that the A.S.C. 
drivers have a steel helmet strapped somewhere 
near the seat. . . . 

I shall anxiously await every letter from you — 
I am so worried as to how you will bear up — you 
positively must not worry, dear, a lot. You know 
in the first place how it upsets your health and 
again you must be brave for Billie and me. She 
must not see you not being brave — and I want 
always to think of you with your head up, taking 
whatever is God's will, like the brave woman I 
know you so well to be. 

What deep satisfaction will be ours, when this 
war is won, that we both did all we could. . . . 



UP THE LINE 93 

My heart and mind are with you always, dear 
— literally always — more now than ever do we 
understand and appreciate our great love. 

Never be downhearted — never gloomy — God 
must be on our country's side. 

Kiss our Billie many, many times for me. 

17 November, '16. 
My dearest Lallie : — 

Today has been bitterly cold — roads all 
frozen hard, almost like Canada. It must be the 
very devil in the trenches. I remember it was 
rotten last February ; but then it was mostly wet, 
slushy snow, not hard, dry cold like this. We are 
somewhere between Arras and Bethune. Late 
this afternoon, I went with some of the boys for 
a long hike to see if we could see "something." 
We jumped an auto truck and went several 
kilometres in that. We wanted to get closer up 
the lines ; but we didn't make it and all we saw 
was a bunch of aeroplanes being shelled with 
shrapnel. We came back in an old French farm 
wagon. Every village and hamlet — quiet old- 
world places, two years ago — is now full of troops, 
wagons, water carts, and all the paraphernalia of 
war. All seems to work like clock work. Every 
one seems just to have his own job and be doing it 
cheerfully without fuss — Wherever you look on 
every side road are lines of big auto trucks, and 
in and out go fast motor cars and auto bikes carry- 



94 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

ing the despatch riders. The roads are in splendid 
condition, kept so by Fritzies — who seem per- 
fectly happy and contented. Each one carries a 
mess tin like ours, and over his shoulder a gas 
helmet. Even the kids in the street carry them. 
In places, too, are gongs marked "gas alarm" in 
case it should come over. At all cross roads, 
everywhere, is a sentry to direct traffic, etc. The 
organization seems perfect, and everywhere you 
breathe the utmost confidence in the very air. 

During our walk we dropped in on the 6th 
Field Ambulance boys — that is, the Ambulance 
attached to our Brigade, the 6th. They are 
billeted in a whacking great French chateau. In 
peace time, no doubt, it was a beautiful home. 
The conservatory is now the men's mess, and 
leading from that, in what I imagine must have 
been the drawing room, a room all panelled in 
marble, are rows of stretchers on old packing 
cases. It's a ward where the 6th boys look after 
sick cases. Two of the stretchers were occupied by 
Fritzies — both of them all smiles. One said he 
had been just six days from leaving home to 
getting captured. They said they were tickled 
to death to be out of it. 

Field Ambulances are divided into companies 
or sections and take turns going into the trenches. 
These boys go in next week again. Of course 
they live and have everything much better than 
we do ; it has always seemed peculiar to me that 



UP THE LINE 95 

the infantry, who after all really win the war — 
have to take all the dirty end of everything — 
grub — billets — every darn thing. And, after 
it's all over, the boys who go home behind the brass 
band will be all these base and staff boys ; the 
fellows who won the war will mostly be pushing 
daisies right here in France. . . . This district 
hasn't been shelled much — Adjoining us is a 
coal mine ; a shell has taken the big chimney 
half off — a darn good shot, if it wasn't a fluke, — 
but the mine is doing business night and day as 
usual ; you can see three or four of these mines 
round about and all are going full blast. 

18 November, '16. 

Today broke bitterly cold — real Canuck 
weather with some snow. Luckily we have 
those sleeveless leather coats which turn the wind 
fine. 

Another fellow and I thought we would like 
to find the 29th layout this a.m. Well, we 
walked I bet ten miles over hill and dale. Once 
we hit a village which had been all shelled to 
pieces. The big chateau was uninhabited and 
looked most desolate, all broken pieces, with the 
bell rope at the big entrance gates hanging swing- 
ing in the wind, and holes in the roof, the lovely 
gardens all weeds — a lovely place utterly ruined. 
Eventually we found the boys camped in a little 
wood. It was the first camp of its kind I had 



96 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

seen, and the first impression I had was a lumber 
camp — long, low, brown bunk houses, cook houses, 
almost exactly the same. The bunk houses are 
built with earth floor, on either side rows of 
rather flimsy bunks. Wire netting forms the 
mattress. At either end were a couple of 
braziers going. They were very dark — most 
every bunk had a candle stuck on the side. The 
boys were all as cheerful as a bunch could be. 
They say it is regular home after the Somme. 
They were out of the trenches two days, only 
sustaining two casualties, those being two rein- 
forcements whose curiosity made them want to 
look over the top. 

28 November, '16. 
My very dearest Lai : — 

I have just got a parcel from you — a box of 
cigarettes — and they could hardly have come 
at a better time. As it happened, I didn't have 
a blessed thing left to smoke, and was wondering 
what I was going to do, when the fellow came 
around with the parcels. Thank you ever so 
much, dear. 

I guess you will notice that my letters now are 
rather hasty and all unconnected. Try to bear it 
always in mind — because I guess they will get 
worse, if anything — there is no place to write at 
all in the billets, no tables, chairs, or anything 
like that. You eat out of your mess tin, sitting 



UP THE LINE 97 

on the floor. There is a Y. ; but it's too far off 
to go often, and moreover you get pretty tired 
by night. Last night, I wrote you, as usual, on 
my knee — on the floor. All my letters are 
written under difficulties, and to have a mind at 
peace and in mood for writing is out of the ques- 
tion. Last night, it appears, Fritz either put an 
extra heavy shell over, or exploded a mine or 
something. Anyhow, the boys in our room say 
they woke to the sound of windows breaking 
and the ground shaking; but I was so beastly 
tired, I slept peacefully on and never heard a 
sound. Always heavy on the sleep stunt; re- 
member ? 

Evening. 

A heavy fog came up before we quit work this 
afternoon and it turned wretchedly cold, so I am 
going to turn in early, hoping to get warm that 
way. There was very little mail tonight. It 
worries me so to know, as I do, that you are 
worrying, and the worst of it is I cannot write — 
talk, we used to call it — as I want to. The 
thoughts are there, but the expression — the 
way to put them on paper, simply won't come. I 
don't suppose they will ever come, until this is 
all over. I know how you will miss it too — but 
I am happy in the knowledge that we are in 
such complete accord that you will realize — 
everything. The things we discussed and planned 



98 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

and debated over must now lie over indefinitely. 
It is quite impossible, under these conditions, to 
give much thought to anything but the barest 
facts of just living, eating, sleeping, working. But 
the intellectual side of life, the beautiful things, 
the clever things, you simply never think of them. 
The reason I am mentioning this at all is I want you 
always to try and see things as they must be with 
me, and judge accordingly. Letters have meant 
more to us than most ; haven't they ? I suppose 
I will get most terribly out of touch with things, 
with the live, progressive world we both so love, 
and books, and what is really happening in "our" 
world; but again that cannot be helped, either. 
You must keep pace with things for both of us, 
and "put me wise" when I get home. 

Good night, dear, I'm going to bed, God bless 
you. R. 

Next night. 

I think I told you that the Batt'n I am momen- 
tarily attached to is made up of fellows just out 
from England and casualties returned from hos- 
pital. They belong to all kinds of Batt'ns but 
are all in the 2nd Division. Just now, things 
are quiet up the line, so our own crowds don't 
keep wanting re-inf or cements. As they do want 
them, they take them from here. We are known 
as the 2nd Entrenching Batt'n ; but there are no 
trenches to be dug, so we do fatigue, and a little 



UP THE LINE 99 

drill etc., also bombing, and musketry — that 
chiefly for the fellows fresh out, who have been 
trained with the Ross, which of course is not 
used. ... 

I can recommend Northcliffe's book just out; 
At the War, I believe it is. You must read it ; it 
will surely be good. To my mind, he is one of 
the greatest Englishmen, but many would dis- 
agree. He is very outspoken, and English people 
seem to loathe anything like that. . . . 

In France — behind the lines. 
Sunday afternoon. 4 December, '16. 

My very dearest Lai, — 

I have got hold of a green envelope, probably the 
last I'll get for a long, long time. They don't 
issue them here ; I got it by luck and good manage- 
ment ! Do you remember the letters you wrote, 
when you thought I was going up to a Casualty 
Clearing Station? You were worried about it 
being dangerous, when most of them are safer than 
England. If you worried then, what will you be 
doing now? And how can I say, "Oh, that'll be 
all right." I might — should — say that to 
any one else; but what's the use of talking a lot 
of hot air like that to you? On the other hand, 
what's the use of dwelling on the black side of 
things? This war is so "different." In any 
other we might talk of "our noble cause", "the 



100 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

clash of arms", "death or glory", and all that 
kind of thing; but this one is so vast, one wee 
atom of a man so small, the chance for individual- 
ity coming out so remote, that it has developed, 
for a single Unit, into merely a job of work to be 
done : eat, sleep, and work. You don't fight ; 
you can't call dodging shells, machine-gun bullets, 
and bombs, fighting; it's fighting all right, when 
you "go over"; but a single battalion doesn't 
go over so very often, even at the Somme. I 
wish I could make you "get" the atmosphere. 
"Heroics" are dead here, a charge is not the 
wonderful, glorious thing we were told it was. I 
have even begun to wonder if it ever was, or if 
the poets and historians and "Press agents" of 
those days have been just kidding us. 

No one wants to go into the trenches, yet no one 
(who is any one) would dodge out of it. Every 
one wants a soft Blighty wound, with the chance 
of getting to where there are no whizz bangs, and 
you go to bed every night. Every man I have 
spoken to : German, French, English, Canuck, 
are sick to death of it; yet to quit without a 
definite decision is out of the question, and no one 
would think of it. And how on earth am I to tell 
you not to worry and all that ; how on earth is a 
husband (like me) to write to a wife (like you) 
about his feelings on and before going into the 
front line of a war like this? None of us are 
heroes. To read of "Our splendid Canadians" 



UP THE LINE 101 

makes us ill. We are just fed up, longing for the 
end, but seldom mentioning it, and hoping — 
when we think of it — that when we do get it, — 
it will be an easy one, or something final. Our 
main effort is to think and talk as little of the 
war as possible. The mail is far the most im- 
portant thing; the next, "What's the rations 
today?"; the next, "What's the job today?". 
Of course newspapers are anxiously bought up — 
but we know the newspapers don't tell us much. 
And the thing is so big anyway that no one can 
possibly grasp even a fraction of it. 

There is one new thing I've learned, and that is 
that it won't be good to be a chap who stayed at 
home, when the boys return. This thing is just 
a bit too serious. We know what it is here. 
Also, the distance between the fellow at the base 
and the fellow in a fighting unit is "as a great 
gulf fixed" — far, far more so than the innocent 
boys at the base dream of. Again, as you know, 
the later Battalions formed in Canada don't re- 
main as a unit, but are drafted as reinforcements 
to older ones, N.C.O.'s of course reverting to 
privates. Well, I don't think I should like to 
have to say I belonged to the one hundred- or 
two hundred- and- umpty something. The ques- 
tion always is — "Why?" "Out of a job"— or 
"Did the girls make you join?" How long have 
you been in France is what matters. . . . 

I'm not sure if you would like me to talk about 



102 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

how I feel regarding the possibility that I might 
"get it good", as they say ; — but, dearie, I don't 
think about it. I did a lot at first, but don't 
now. Thinking about it could do no good; in 
fact, I fancy a man couldn't do his best, if lie 
perpetually had that thought in his mind. As 
regards your future, in case I got killed, well, I 
have thought that all out ; but I am not going to 
say anything about it — mainly because you are 
so much better than any man could hope to be — 
a higher type, dearie, altogether. It is much too 
sacred a thing for me to "talk" of, sitting on the 
floor of a barrack room, surrounded by poker 
players, all sorts of people, — I couldn't. 

Regarding the kiddie in that event, my views 
on her future so exactly coincide with yours, that 
there is nothing left to say. I have told you 
before that I consider you a perfect Mother, — 
more I cannot say. Billie will be in perfect 
hands ; she will have a Mother such as I should 
choose if I had the whole world to pick from. 

14 December, '16. 
My dearest Lai : — 

I have had a jolly interesting letter from you. I 
wish I could write the way you do — I mean in a 
chatty way ; but I can't. I seem always to be 
strung up to an unnatural kind of pitch, never have 
a mind at complete ease, and the consequence is 
my letters all seem to me to be forced and not a 



UP THE LINE 103 

bit like I want them to be. But I know how you 
always want something regularly to tell you I am 
well, so I will send as many of those cards — the 
boys have named them "whizz bangs" for some 
reason — I mean, of course, the post cards. They 
are not exactly interesting; but they will show 
you that I am still up and going strong. Today, 
I have been reading about the German peace 
proposals. My impression is it is very clever of 
them; but, of course, we shall "carry on" just 
the same. I think that every horror that has so 
far been enacted in the war will be outdone in 
1917, and that the German common people will 
not stand another winter, and so it will end. But 
not, in my opinion, with an out-and-out knock- 
out either way, or with any huge gains of territory 
by us. 

Things are still exceedingly quiet on this front, 
which I am directly behind; in fact, you could 
hardly tell there was a war on. . . . 

By the way, has it ever struck you what a 
force, politically, the returned soldiers will be 
after the war? Lord Northcliffe has drawn 
attention to the fact that, after the Civil War 
in America, the men who had fought, controlled 
the country for fifty years. I suppose those 
cocksure politicians would smile, if you told 
them ; but I prophesy that the boys out here will 
run things, when they return. You see if I am 
not right. You will see they will hang together 



104 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

as one man. It will be the greatest "frat" in the 
country. . . . 

18 December, '16. 
My dearest Lai : 

Just a very short note. We are moving billets, 
hence the hurry. 

I was highly amused to hear the tanks are 
made in America. Germany also claims originat- 
ing them. No, dear, let poor old England have 
something. They were designed and built in a 
town in the North of England which I know well. 
And, by the way, don't get the impression they 
are the whole cheese; they wouldn't be worth a 
nickel without the human element — the infantry. 
However, soon I will see one work, enter one, and 
will give you my impression (with one eye on the 
censor, of course). 

About the war — and me — there isn't much 
to be said. Things are still delightfully quiet. 
It snowed today, and tonight it's beastly cold. 
The new billets, I think, will be an improvement. 
Hope so. 

I haven't been out on a working party for a few 
days, and am anxiously hoping one won't come 
my way till Xmas is over — but I have fears. 

Most people, I think, imagine, when you are 
at the front, you spend all your time in a trench, 
looking out for Heinie. My last few days have 
been spent digging holes to bury old cans in, 



UP THE LINE 105 

and hauling flags for the floor of a large tent. 
Nothing very warlike or romantic about that, is 
there? But all these little things have to be 
done, you know, and about a million of them. 

26 December, '16. 
My Dearest Lai : 

Xmas has come and gone. It was horrible 
weather, rained all day, and a gale of wind blew 
so hard even walking was difficult. As far as was 
possible we had a good time ; I cashed the P.O. 
the day before Xmas eve — there were four of 
us to share it and it lasted till this evening. We 
didn't have any parade Xmas day, so we spent 
it visiting various friends in different billets. I 
had just moved to mine, the new one ; it's a sort 
of washhouse back of a cottage, just room for 
three — about six feet square. We have a little 
stove and the woman in the cottage, being a 
little more civilized than the general run, we 
can use her coal pails to wash in and so forth. 
There was no Xmas dinner, such as the papers 
say all the troops get. The issue was the regular 
tea at noon — with the addition of prunes. At 
night, the usual "Mulligan", or stew. However 
it didn't make much difference to us, as we ate in 
the village. Just as we got to bed, Xmas Eve, 
all the surrounding batteries started a big strafe 
and continued till twelve o'clock sharp, as a sort 
of Xmas box to Fritz, I guess. It made such a 



106 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

row and shook the place so we couldn't sleep. One 
big gun throwing heavies over sounded just like 
the street cars approaching, as you wait often, 
no doubt, at the corner of Second Avenue; the 
light in the sky was exactly like summer lightning 
as you have seen it flickering scores of times. 

Today is very clear and, as I write, Fritz is 
very busy shelling our planes which are up in 
great strength. I have never seen him hit one 
yet. 

I think they are getting a bit more lively on 
this bit of front. You remember my telling you 
about that ruined village I was in one night? 
For some reason, Fritz took it into his head, the 
other day, to put a few more shells into it, and 
one fell on four of our boys who were cooking their 
grub. It was rotten luck ; but they never knew 
what hit 'em, I suppose. Also — probably you 
didn't — but you might have seen something like 
this in the papers: "In the Arras section, we 
made a raid, capturing fifty odd prisoners." This 
was when four hundred of our boys went over the 
top here the other night. It was a very successful 
raid. They stayed in Fritz's line an hour and a 
half, and only lost a few killed. 

The other day, they asked for volunteers to 
take machine gun corps instruction. I thought 
it all over very carefully, as I would rather like 
to be a machine gunner — but I finally turned it 
down. I want to get a job as Battn. stretcher 



UP THE LINE 107 

bearer. It's a rotten job, of course, and nobody 
wants it ; but I rather think I would be more 
use binding up wounds than I would be just 
carrying a gun in the ordinary way. I got quite 
a little experience in the ward at Boulogne, 
which will be a lot of help. Moreover, I think it's 
interesting — much more so than merely being in 
the line. 

During the big wind the other day, our Y.M. 
tent blew down, and I was unluckily on the 
party working at night to fold it up — so we 
have no place to go to write or anything. It 
was a new institution for us ; we have only 
had it about a week or so. As the wind tore 
it very badly, I guess we'll have to go without 
one now. 

Several batteries have started another strafe 
and the window of my little shack is rattling to 
beat the band. The big heavy, I think, is a new 
addition ; it certainly sends over some pretty 
husky shells, very much to Fritz's annoyance. I 
suppose the planes have been sending down some 
fresh ranges this morning and that will be the 
reason of the extra bombardment. The old 
woman in the back yard goes on calmly with 
her washing, merely remarking to me "Bon for 
the Allemagne." Nothing seems to excite those 
old people now ; they have seen so much of it. 
The thing that surprised me, and what I can 
never understand, is why Fritz doesn't shell this 



108 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

town. He must know we are here; his planes 
manage to get over every now and then. Also 
all within a mile of each other are three or four 
coal mines, all going full blast. I should imagine 
he'd go to great trouble to put 'em out of business. 
Also, he never makes any attempt to bring down 
our observation balloons which, on a day like 
today, are up all along the line. On this sector, 
we simply have him beat to a standstill in every 
department. 

If only he'd get worse and quit ; but no such 
luck for another year, I'm afraid. 

My little house looks very cosy tonight. I'm 
all alone. We got a little table, swiped an old 
chair, the stove is going fine, and I've just made a 
mess tin full of tea (strong). Later, I'll manage 
some toast. We are well stocked with Oxo, 
cakes, cafe au lait, and a plum pudding, also some 
canned butter. Somebody rustled up some shelves 
which are decorated with home photographs. It 
doesn't look much like active service in France, 
until you notice the other war decorations : 
gas helmets, rifles and so forth. Did I tell you I 
was through the gas school — tear-gas. You 
go and stay in a big dark shed full of it. Rather 
weird it is. It's to test out the helmets. It 
smells of pineapples ; the gas Fritz uses is more 
dangerous as it's colourless — I dread that — and 
being buried — more than anything. 

Anyway, one may go through Ypres and the 



UP THE LINE 109 

Somme, say, and never get a scratch, and another 
get hit by a bit of our own aeroplane shells miles 
behind the line — so I don't suppose where I 
personally go matters much. It's written — and 
what is to be will be, and only time will show. 

30 December, '16. 
My very dearest Lai, — 

I always thought Friday was my lucky day; 
but I guess I made a mistake and it is Saturday ; 
because, in addition to have an easy day, I got 
two letters and a parcel. 

Tonight our little shack is decidedly cosy. 
Bill is lying on the floor on my blankets, reading 
a magazine he swiped : the stove is red hot ; 
we have had a big feed of hot "mulligan" topped 
off with what we both think honestly is the 
very best cake we have ever tasted. We have 
good cigarettes, and I have a new pipe. Later 
on, we will have some hot Oxo and some more 
cake, and the weather and Fritz can go hang 
till tomorrow. The parcel was the Xmas one. 
It was lovely, the packing the most thoughtful 
I have ever seen. Everything has a use out here. 
The tin is what we wanted to keep our jam and 
cheese wrapped in ; the stickers make a nice wall 
decoration ; string — we always need string. 
So you can see that all of it comes in for some- 
thing. You don't know what a "parcel" means 
— you couldn't. It's the nice feeling you have 



110 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

when they come, apart from the eats which 
seem almost a necessity, and the other things 
which are of the utmost use. 

I see you say some one told you that any par- 
cels going to the hospitals would be kept there 
and disposed of by the boys in the care-free way 
they have. That is only half right. They 
wouldn't down there; but they would up at the 
Battalion, and really it is only right. The fel- 
low may be dead, or in Blighty or some place 
where he won't need it. Some one, some place, 
is no doubt shaving with my Gillett's blades, 
and some one else has my other presents — but, 
Que voulez vous? The only thing to do is to 
register small stuff, and sew everything else up 
most carefully. Too much attention cannot be 
given to packing. No one would think of re- 
directing a broken package. What would be 
the use ? 

I was ever so pleased that you wrote in such a 
cheerful strain. I know it isn't all put on. 
And you want always to bear in mind that an 
awful lot of the stuff you hear about the trenches 
is a great deal exaggerated. It isn't as bad as 
all that, and anyway a Battalion isn't "in" 
all the time, you know. Some of the boys will 
even be "out" for a whole month. Those boys, 
that you get in conversation back there, try to 
give you all the horrors and none of the fun 
of it. 



UP THE LINE 111 

31 December, '16. 
Sunday — (New Year's Eve). 

My very dearest Lai, — 

Today we were quite lucky. Apparently there 
were no parties to go out anywhere, so we went 
to Church in the Cinema Hall. It wasn't very 
interesting. Tonight there is a special service 
— with communion, if you wish — it is a voluntary 
affair — at seven-thirty. Chaplains who know 
how to talk and interest men up near, and at 
the front line, are awfully scarce. I've only 
heard one real, live, sincere one, and he was at La 
Havre. . . . 

Did I tell you at Xmas the boys who drive the 
big transport trucks all decorated them with 
holly, and the big gun fellows actually hung 
mistletoe on the guns? 

That's one reason why we can't lose the war : 
our boys are irrepressible, in a sporting way, not 
surlily savage. That spirit wouldn't last. Ours 
will. Only the newspapers talk of Huns. They 
are always Fritzes to us. The boys kill 'em with 
the same good nature that they laugh at them, 
when they come in as prisoners. The most 
common remark is, "Hello Fritz! When's the 
war going to end?" Fritz soon catches the 
spirit, and goes about his work quite cheerfully. 
He has a canteen of his own, and can smoke and 
all that. His rations, I think, are identical; I 



112 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

know he gets a third of a loaf of bread, just as 
we do. It wasn't him that invented gas and 
liquid flame. 

Mention of gas reminds me Arras was shelled 
heavily again the other day with gas shells. 
My chum Billy was gassed slightly at the salient. 
He and others were asleep, when he thought his 
rubber sheet smelt funny — Fritz was shelling all 
around ; but nothing special. Suddenly he thought 
perhaps they were gas shells, — and kicked up 
as many sleepers as he could, meantime trying 
to pull his mask over his head — (that was be- 
fore we got the fine new ones) but he hadn't 
time. It was beating him, so he stuffed as much 
of the thing into his mouth as he could and 
beat it. A great many died. He's a fine husky 
lad; but he's never been the same, he says. 
His eyes are not so good, and his chest is bad 
now and then. He was wounded too, and wears 
a little gold stripe ; also he's a corporal. I'll 
want you to meet him some day — 

I am getting more impressed every day with 
the perfect organization and readiness of things 
here. Whatever it was before, today I cannot 
see a fault, not one. Of course, we all kick all 
the time, "grouse" as the English call it; but 
that is a soldier's privilege. We kick at the 
rations, the work, everything; but that doesn't 
signify anything. If we shouldn't win, it is not 
the soldiers' — by that I mean the Armies' — 



UP THE LINE 113 

fault. Everything is like a perfect, well-oiled 
piece of machinery. All the men are well clothed, 
good boots — so essential. All the men are 
well ; there is no sickness whatever. I mean 
no fevers and that sort of thing. All things 
like tools for every purpose are here in abun- 
dance ; ammunition — well — in more than abun- 
dance. Our planes are up in the sky all the time 
in flocks, and the big guns — I don't know what 
to say about them. I don't even begin to know 
where they are; but I know wherever we are, 
one is liable to make you jump by letting off a 
round or so, apparently out of the earth. The 
transports run day and night with the regularity 
of trains ; and reinforcements of all these things 
are right here, right at hand. But most of all, 
the right spirit is here. Every one knows we 
are winning. There is no fuss — no hurry. 
The vast organization is like a successful busi- 
ness, running smoothly with plenty of work and 
orders on hand. I wonder if Fritz can say the 
same. All I know, his batteries do not reply to 
ours, his planes put a show in once in a while; 
but, in less than two minutes, he is surrounded 
by little clouds of bursting shrapnel and our 
flying boys are after him like a hawk on a 
pigeon. He never waits, always turns tail and 
beats it. Also, I think he flies too high for ac- 
curate observation. Truth to tell, I don't blame 
him. 



114 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

All this speaks to only one end. Only a silly 
ass thinks we are going to pour through, and on 
to the Rhine. This isn't a war of pitched battles 
of that kind. Moral effect — that now common 
phrase — matters more and more, and will be 
the decisive factor — Army — then Civil. To 
advance a mile doesn't sound much ; but imagine 
what it would be if Fritz advanced a mile here ! 
It isn't the trenches ; but the vast organization 
behind that suffers most ; the roads and routes, 
the cables, the 'phones, the billets, gun emplace- 
ments, supply depots, and Oh — everything. 
To put that out of gear is what counts. 

Behind every mile of trenches is literally a 
town — a temporary town, true ; but a town with 
all its organization from water supply to electric 
light. Say, what a fortune a fellow could make 

— will make, many of them — conducting^ tour- 
ing parties through here, after it is all over ! 
Then millions will come; I'll never rest till I 
come here myself. I want to see the Salient, Cour- 
celette (Our Capture), and I want to see Fritz's 
side of the thing. I suppose all the dugouts and 
trenches will be left for generations for this very 
purpose ; and old French farmers will coin money 
out of otherwise barren land. Souvenir hunting 
will be interesting ; queer things will be dug up 

— unless the French Government prohibit tour- 
ing parties until all is made sanitary — which I 
guess they will. 



UP THE LINE 115 

Wednesday, 3 January, '17. 
My dearest Lai : — 

Yesterday, I was working just in front of one 
of our batteries, helping build a railroad track. 
Our batteries were giving Fritz no rest, all along 
the line. At dusk, you could see the flashes 
from many guns too far away to hear the report. 
Not a single shot did Fritz push over in return; 
in fact, it's hard to imagine that there are Ger- 
man lines "over there." In the morning we 
had to squat down and keep still for a while, 3 as 
two Fritz planes were up. But they didn't 
come far. In addition to a barrage put up by 
our anti-aircraft guns, more with — or at least 
much with — the idea of heading him as bring- 
ing him down, were a number of our planes quite 
ready for him, if he came too far. It must all 
be very discouraging for poor Fritz ; but the 
worst is yet to come no doubt, in the grand finale. 
Everything is going. 

I was rather amused (forgive me) at your idea 
of my possibly getting "cut out", over the top, 
and about the ration "sewn up in your coat." 

My dear, a Battn. doesn't go over the top 
once to a blue moon; moreover, going over, the 
worst thing you suffer in a trench — holding a 
crater for instance, is far worse. And you don't 
have anything sewn in your coat. I don't worry 
a bit about my teeth; but I do about my eyes, 



116 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

which are getting very poor indeed, especially 
at night. . . . 

5 January, '17. 
My Ownest Lai : — 

Mail is beginning to come with regularity, and 
I am tickled to death, of course. I keep getting 
some from the Hospital, which is out of date to 
say the least; but most of it is right bang news, 
cheery and optimistic, breathing of hope and 
above all telling me you and Billikins both are, 
as we say here, "Jake" — in other words, fine. 
Those are the kind of letters I love to have, and 
I feel better for having read 'em right away. 

Today all sorts of "domestic" happenings seem 
to be around our little home. To begin with, 
our orderly Cpl. has gone up the line on a draft, 
and B. has got his job. That makes our room 
the Post Office, nice for getting your mail tout 
suit, but a nuisance, somewhat, owing to so many 
callers. W. marches in, this afternoon, with 
the green slip which is more precious than rubies, 
the most valued thing a soldier ever gets in France 
— a leave ticket — for ten days they are now, 
too. His mother is over from New York on a 
trip to London. He's been here twenty-three 
months in France without a day's leave, and 
maybe he isn't tickled. (It almost looks as if I 
might get mine after all.) The shack is all in a 
flurry with him packing up. You have to go 



UP THE LINE 117 

with full kit, minus ammunition. It's a darn 
shame we should have to wait so long, when base 
fellows, and officers, can go over so often; but 
of course the Infantry, indeed, any of us up the 
line, take all the dirt of everything, from grub 
to work. • 

And now you may wonder how I happen to be 
"at home" in the afternoon. Well, a fellow out 
on a working party fell to pieces and went insane. 
They took him to the field Hospital, and I am 
one of his guards till they've finished "observ- 
ing" him (I hope it takes six months). They, 
of course, consider the possibility that he may be 
pulling one big "swinging the lead" stunt; some 
darned queer things have been done here to get 
back to Blighty or Canada. I do twenty-four 
hours, and same off, with another fellow; it's a 
cinch. The Fid. Amb. is, at least the head- 
quarters are, in rather a nice chateau — what's 
left of it. I told you about it once before. The 
jay is in one of the rooms upstairs which has 
been turned into a ward and by a coincidence is 
presided over by a Med. Student, one time of 
No. 3 down at Boulogne. It's a fine big room 
with three large long French windows overlook- 
ing the grounds ; the wall paper is modern and 
rather pretty; the beds consist of stretchers on 
low trestles ; there are, of course, none of the 
refinements of a base hospital, no sheets or any- 
thing like that; if any one is wounded in the 



118 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

trenches, he goes to the advanced dressing 
station. . . . 

I was going on, when some one remarked 
"That must be one of Fritz's." No one bothered 
to get up to look out of the window even. Later, 
a fellow casually remarked that "Fritz had put 
a few here this morning and one had dropped on 
the coal pile near the billets. " Not the slightest 
interest is taken. Remarkable, isn't it? 

I am sometimes amused when you mention 
the fellows who you know in khaki and things 
about the two hundred-and-umpty something 
battalion. The first thing those fellows think 
about when they get as far up as this is to get 
rid of those nice pretty badges, and pick up the 
ones of the battalion they reinforce. We think 
they took their patriotism rather late, you know ; 
don't you? Certainly, I never want any fit 
man of military age, who didn't go to France 
during this time, to come near our home; and 
I guess he won't — twice — 

Your remark about the returned men being 
somewhat "difficile" is exactly what I expected 
— and it will get worse. There are two sides to 
the question of the boys, in my idea. One is 
that they don't want a lot of fussy people patron- 
izing them. All they want is what is coming to 
them and to be left alone. The other is, of 
course, that a very large number will undoubt- 
edly trade on the fact that they went to France 



UP THE LINE 119 

for their country's sake — whether they did or 
did not they'll think they did, and try to bum 
around till doomsday. What it will be like when 
all return, I don't know; but I expect, if any 
one thinks they are going to mother him in a 
patronizing way, they'll be dead out of luck, and 
will of course blame the poor Tommy for what 
is due to their own lack of tact. There are going 
to be some rude awakenings on both sides, I 
guess. The English people take the thing better 
and more sensibly, because they all realize it 
more, have given more and lost more. 

The Returned Soldiers' Association sounds 
alright. But, as you say, it will have to be free 
of all interference. Personally, I don't give a 
hang for anything of that kind. All I want is 
to get to Canada, and they can keep all that's 
coming to me. I'll gladly say I never was even 
over here. All I want is to get there — and to 
be home with you. . . . 

Of course, S. wanted to come to France. Per- 
sonally, now that I have been up here and seen 
what it's like, I don't see any reason for fearing 
anything should happen to him beyond the ordi- 
nary risks. He would not be intrusted with a 
'phone or wire job on the front line, but would 
be given some base, or advance base job, practi- 
cally bomb proof. Certainly it would be ten 
thousand times better for him in every way to be 
up here than in Shorncliffe. You are kept busy 



120 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

here. The work is taken more or less seriously, 
which it certainly is not at Shorncliffe. The 
wildest forms of amusement are sitting in a 
French estaminet drinking their wine — quite 
harmless — or so-called English beer — more 
harmless still — in the company of the old woman 
inn keeper and her family. Women are taboo, 
I suppose by the French Military authorities. 
Whichever way you figure it, this would be the 
best place for him. Moreover, I don't see why 
he shouldn't take his chance with the rest. I 
thought differently about it at Havre, I know; 
but I've changed my mind. 

However, I don't suppose he'll be allowed to 
come. Two kids out of our battalion were sent 
back, as too young to fight, recently. The 
humour of the thing lies in the fact that both wore 
gold wound stripes got at the Somme — kind of 
late to decide that they were unfit. But the boys 
worried a lot, you can bet ; they were just tickled 
to death. 

When I think of how quiet things were here 
when we first came, and the situation now, it 
makes me — wonder. Of course, there was al- 
ways a bombardment — of sorts. But not the 
kind that keeps the light flickering in the sky at 
night, all the time; nor did any of the guns let 
out a roar which shook the ground. Now — 
well — things are altering. . . . 

Fritz came over in one of his "planes", the 



UP THE LINE 121 

other night, and dropped a few — He must be 
getting quite bold again. 

Every fine night, our planes go over to drop 
bombs on his billet, and picture shows, etc. Next 
day, weather permitting, they calmly go over 
and take a photograph of the damage. Our air 
service is simply magnificent and must undoubt- 
edly be a great discouragement to poor Heinie. 
We took his punishment for two years ; now it is 
his turn. You'll notice I don't say much about 
going "down there" now. I think our business 
will be elsewhere. Also, I think we Canadians as 
usual will be right there — probably for the Anzacs 
to get the glory. To get the true light on them, 
you have to ask an Imperial's opinion. He gives 
it in no uncertain words — "wo 6on." Every 
town in England swarms with them on leave, 
where our fellows cannot get it on a bet. Out 
here, taking your objective is easy ; holding, after 
Fritz loosens up his artillery, is what counts. 
History will show. We took and held; Aus- 
tralia took alright, but did not hold. . . . 

A thing I forgot to mention amongst the things 
I would like you to put in your parcels are candles 
— the thick kind, if possible. Whether in billets 
or tents or dugouts, you don't get them — at 
least we don't — issued, and there is no other 
light. The French shops charge twopence half- 
penny each for only a small one, and a dollar 
fifty a week doesn't go far enough. In the line, 



m A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

the boys get an old jam tin, cut up a candle in 
small pieces ; put a layer on the bottom, then a 
piece of sand-bag, then another layer of candle, 
and so on as far as it will go; and you have a 
thing which you can fry bacon or boil a mess tin 
on. Some stove, eh? But quite effective. 

You ask me if the socks you sent were jake. 
You bet they were; but too good. Very com- 
mon — very thick ones are the only thing, so 
that you can throw them away. Weight is all 
that matters in your kit. My shaving kit, a 
comb, a few pairs of socks (most important of all), 
photographs and letters, two pipes, a pencil and 
cigarette case are all I own in the world. I am 
busting with health — glad to be here in every 
wa^ ; far more contented than at Boulogne — 
and ure of victory, Positive of it, this year. 

Next Day. 

My nice soft job has gone back on me. The 
guy was proved "dippy", and the fellow who 
was guarding while I was off has taken him down 
the line. 

There is no doubt the fellow is crazy. He 
thought he was going to be shot for cowardice. 
I think he was afraid of being afraid, till it got 
him — only a young fellow. The first night I was 
with him, he bothered me all the time to let him 
go out and dig his grave. It's not uncommon for 
fellows to go crazy in the front line. . . . 



UP THE LINE 123 

Today I watched miles — literally — of guns 
and men on the move. In Canada or England, 
it would draw people from a hundred miles to 
see; but here it's so matter of course that even 
the French civilians don't bother to turn their 
heads. The thing that impressed me most was 
that the men went about it all just as they would 
in ordinary every-day life. The gun drivers 
just went on like ordinary teamsters — and so 
on, all down the line. The whole thing is just a 
job of work. You get so used to the thing that 
nothing whatever seems to surprise you. . . . 

11 January, '17. 
My Ownest Lai, — 

Both mail and parcels come regularly now, 
though of course many letters have gone astray, 
particularly those you must have sent imme- 
diately after I left Boulogne. It's too bad. I 
wanted them particularly, but though I now 
know your views, my mind is more at ease. I 
depend so much on you and value your opinion 
so highly. Yes, I got the parcel. The cap will 
be most useful, particularly on night working 
parties. The steel helmet is rather heavy and 
clumsy, and you will have seen in photographs 
that the boys almost always wear something of 
this sort under it. We get a thing issued; but 
it's a cheap affair, and not much good. I'll 
have to cut holes at the sides for my ears. You 



124 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

need to keep them uncovered. The socks are 
fine, but still too good. I want cheap ones, also 
only send one pair at a time. 

Who told you "Imperial" tobacco was good? 
Good ! I'd always sooner have tobacco than 
cigarettes. We get an issue ; but it's not always 
regular, nor good. 

The steel mirror was particularly appropriate 
and welcome. Of course they are the only kind. 
I have one already, but it's a small one and had 
lost a lot of its polish ; they do in the damp and 
wet. Glass ones are no good at all, as your pack 
is your seat in the day time and your pillow at 
night. Gloves we get issued. Maybe they last 
a week, at most; and you have an awful time 
getting another pair. My issued ones were all 
holes, so yours came just at the right moment. 
The best kind are those strong Canadian leather 
ones that workmen wear in Canada and the 
States. In England or France, there is nothing 
like them. When you are on barbed wire work, 
you get the loan of a pair of specially made canvas 
things. Excellent they are; but you have to 
turn them in again, when the job is done. The 
boys try to swipe 'em, but are not often success- 
ful. 

Your letters are different now. They mean 
more to me. Of course, they are not the same 
letters you wrote to Boulogne at all. I like them 
much better. But you always do seem to do 



UP THE LINE 125 

the right thing at the right time. I am so afraid 
you will think mine lacking in heart, but they are 
not; they were never so full of it, if you can 
understand. Somehow it's impossible to write 
of our homey heart-to-heart things. This life 
is too big. The time may be too short. You 
are my comrade ; my pal ; you are here with 
me in spirit. The small things must wait. I 
look on you as living through life with me actually. 
And if you were here, we would not have the 
time or inclination to talk of the little things 
which are really the big things. We should 
mutually agree to let them wait. 

You can be assured that, when the time comes, 
I shall not be behind in keeping up the standard 
you would wish. It is your standard that I 
shall be acting up to, the one you set. Whatever 
happens, you must always remember that you 
are with me every minute ; that it will be more 
you than me that will do the things I do, that 
I shall always think first — What would Lai 
do ? — and do it. 

The whole division is moving — not "in", 
but "out." We shall have a "rest." (Good 
word that — The Army must laugh in its sleeve 
when they call it that. When the division is out 
for a rest, it's the hardest time they have : drills, 
parades — endless fatigues.) 

I am great friends now with the Madame who 
owns our wash-house home. Sometimes she asks 



126 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

B. and me in for a cup of coffee, and we give her 
part of our parcels for the pickaninnies, as they 
call the children here. Across the street is an 
old, old woman who,! call my grandmere. She 
calls me "Poppa", and comes in to see us some- 
times. She is a great old scout, wears the fa- 
miliar sabots. She has a face like an old, old apple. 
A man who is married for some reason stands 
ace high with her. When you go to see her, you 
must sit with her and be right at home. B. is 
the gentil Caporal to her; she likes him, too. 
She has a high, shrill voice you can hear three 
blocks away; and a heart of gold. When the 
old French Madames are good, they are very, 
very good ; but when they are bad, they are just 
shrews. Of course, there are no men, only those 
who work in the mines, and some very old 
men. In one sector of the front, the French 
lost seventy thousand men in one battle, in the 
early days of the war; but we shall regain that 
ground, this year, and much more. We have the 
guns now. 

To give you an insight into the "every day- 
ness" the "so-used-to-it" feeling of things held 
by the civilians here : the other day, old Madame's 
niece, who is married and whose husband is in 
the "Transhays", came home at noon, an un- 
usual thing. She works in a laundry. B. says, 
"Hello, a holiday today, eh?" or words to that 
effect. 



UP THE LINE 127 

The girl says, quite unmoved, "But no, Mon- 
sieur. The Bosche, he threw over one big bomm 
bomm. It fell in the laundry yard, and the mon- 
sieur he say, 'You all go home today.'" 

Imagine the concern if the Bosche threw one 
little high explosive shell into the yard of the 
laundry at Ottawa ! 

We are worrying Fritz night and day here 
now. He is never allowed a rest. The scream of 
the "big heavies" passing over is with us most all 
the time, and the little eighteen pounders closer 
up are always at it. We have him beat, and so 
careful is he of his ammunition, or disclosing a 
battery, that he seldom replies. He does some- 
times, though. I guess he gets exasperated, and 
feels he has to. 

These are great adventures, the great one for 
many; but they don't get the limelight. We 
are close enough up to the line for us to see things 
in our wash house when they are up. A big 
raid is usually about two hundred men. They 
creep over with blackened faces, mostly on their 
tummies, with fixed bayonets, bombers in the 
lead. Immediately before this comes off, usually 
for two minutes or so, the artillery puts up a 
bombardment, the like of which you cannot 
imagine. This is to clear Fritz's men. If this 
is not done completely, the boys must come back 
— some of 'em. These raids serve several pur- 
poses. We find out just what Fritz is doing 



128 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

in the trenches, destroy machine gun emplace- 
ments, but, main thing, bring back prisoners. 
From them the Intelligence Staff, which by the 
way is wonderful, find out what regiments are 
"in", who is holding that particular bit of line, 
and many, many other things. 

We control No Man's Land from La Bassee 
to the Somme — something to say. Fritz's raids 
are only a joke; his attacking days are over, 
anyway. You will note how almost absurdly 
confident I am. I am using my own intelli- 
gence; these ideas I have not got from others. 
We are top dog — every one knows it. Thou- 
sands and thousands will make the great sacri- 
fice, of course. It will not be easy ; but the game's 
now ours. We only await the word. We have 
everything, men, guns, everything, and the win- 
ning spirit. No one is crazily elated. It's a 
job of work to be done calmly and quietly ; and 
it will be done. And then we'll come home. 

Recently our bunch have provided the Prison 
Guard — that is, the German prisoners. In 
the morning, you go down, stick five rounds in 
your magazine, fix your bayonet, and take a 
couple or so hundred prisoners out to work. You 
go in motor lorries, about forty to a truck and 
two guards. The bayonet-fixing is a matter of 
form and a joke ; one couldn't drive Fritzie to 
escape with a club. About seven miles out are 
some stone quarries, and they break big stones 



UP THE LINE 129 

into little ones for the road. Taking them in 
the bunch, they are a poor-looking lot — Somme 
prisoners chiefly. I was rather interested in 
the job, as I like to talk to them, hear their point 
of view, etc. They wear the uniform they were 
taken in, for the most part. Some wear an old 
Canadian cap ; most wear puttees they have 
made for themselves out of sandbags. Those 
with no overcoats carry an English issue rubber 
sheet, same as ours. All carry gas masks. Guess 
they know their value. Their food is the same 
as ours. They work just as little as they can 
get away with, and laugh and talk and smoke 
to their heart's content. "For me the war is 
finished" is their tune. 

Part of the day I was on, I was taking small 
parties of my own to different jobs. On one 
occasion a man said to me, — 

"Are you the man who is taking us to fetch 
that lumber?" 

"Lumber!" says I. "I guess you learnt that 
word in America." 

"Sure, I'm from New Haven, Conn." 

A good-natured, merry little man, it appeared 
he was on a trip home to Germany in 1914 when 
they grabbed him for the army — very much to 
his disgust. I guess he saw to it he was captured ; 
the Canucks took him at Courcelotte. I asked him 
about the war. His remarks are unwritable — but 
— he'd like to see Kaiser Bill in the trenches. 



130 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Of course he doesn't work ; he is invaluable as 
an interpreter. He was quite happy, very fat, 
merry and contented. And — I rather gathered 
he held his "Kamerads" in contempt; he was 
"American." 

Others I talked to, who had a little English, 
told me Bapaume and Peronne were untakable ; 
that the war would finish in three weeks. All 
agreed that, but for England finding the money, 
the war would have been over long ago, with 
victory to the Allemagne. But victory is al- 
ready theirs — no doubt of it. The little tubby 
man from New Haven, though, was silent. 

Write and tell me of everything — the little 
things — and often. What Billie says. What 
you say. What you do. And what you think. 
Everything. You are my life. 

26 January, '17. 
My dear Lai : — 

I haven't written for a day or two because it 
has been positively too cold. Sounds rather 
funny, but it's true. Our billet, which is cosy 
enough for ordinary weather, has quite fallen 
down on this Canadian kind. These little out- 
house places are not meant to live in, in the first 
place; but pass alright for ordinary weather. 
We never noticed till a day ago, for instance, 
that there are two holes in the roof and several 
million holes around the walls and floor. We 



UP THE LINE 131 

have stopped up all we can, and we look after 
the stove with more care than you ever did Billie. 
We just cannot get warm. To make things worse, 
a draft came in with no blankets, and we had to 
cash in our extra ones, so now we have only two 
each. I have never seen weather like this out- 
side Canada. Paris said yesterday was the 
coldest day on the Western front. Honestly it's 
the limit. What it's like in the trenches won't 
bear thinking of. Indeed, I don't know how they 
stand it at all. 

I am tremendously thankful for my more or 
less easy job. Working parties and parades 
don't look good to me just now. When at home 
here, we sit huddled over our portable small 
stove ; when at work, there is not time, and what 
there is, is spent trying to warm up. 

31 January, '17. 
My dearest Lai : 

Conditions are just the same, only a trifle 
more so. I'm writing this, sitting almost plumb 
on top of the wee stove we have, and I am freez- 
ing to death, at that. It doesn't even improve 
when it's bedtime. Two blankets in this are 
just about as much use as none at all. To give 
you an idea : last night I don't suppose the stove 
went out till about twelve, yet at six this morning, 
a mess tin of water left on it over night was 
frozen solid. 



132 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

When I look back on conditions as they were 
here when I first came, and now, I am very im- 
pressed with the change. Every day seems to 
add something to our already splendid organiza- 
tion. Every now and then we put up a bom- 
bardment which must be an eye-opener to Fritz. 
To give you some comparison to go by, I'm told 
by one who was there, that last year at Ypres 
nothing like the amount of shells were put over 
by us. At that time, of course, Ypres was the 
most important point of the British line. This 
point is hardly ever mentioned in the commu- 
niques, yet we can now bombard more on an insig- 
nificant front than we could last year on the most 
important. You remember I told you Fritz 
never retaliates in either shells or planes. That 
is changed. He is quite frequently over us now; 
but not in any strength, never more than two 
planes at once. Also he throws an odd shell 
over now and then; but nothing to matter, 
anyway not near our billets. * 

You don't think that I spend my time picking 
rats out of my clothes and skipping out of the 
way of Fritz's shells ; do you ? Not a blooming 
shell has fallen within a mile of me as yet. I wish 
it would ; I want to see one bust. I'm far safer 
than I should be helping you to light the furnace 
at 77 

I'm worried, too, terribly worried. It's whether 
my turn for leave will come before it shuts down 



UP THE LINE 133 

for good. Believe me that's some worry to pack 
around. The thing I chiefly long for on leave — 
or things, I should say — are unlimited hot baths, 
meals brought to me by somebody else, no reveille, 
and lots of good shows. Do you realize the fact, 
when I tell you I haven't been inside a bath for 
thirteen months, only stood in drafty thin huts 
under a shower, a very poor substitute indeed. 
I think you will faintly imagine the luxury of 
sitting in hot water, with a cigarette and an eve- 
ning paper. I intend — should luck favour me 
— to spend considerable of my leave sitting 
in a bath. And eats ! I haven't really had a 
decent feed for a year. But most, I think is the 
longing for one short spell away from military 
discipline. My God, how I hate it ! 

There is a concert here every Wednesday; 
but it's held in an old marquee, and the weather 
doesn't make me feel much like going to 'em. 
Also, every Saturday, there's a boxing tourna- 
ment open to the whole division, but I don't go 
to them for the same reason. I never go to the 
Y., because it's too far away, and there's nothing 
there anyway — I mean not a sort of club, like 
the Boulogne one was. Up here, war is a business, 
and you have to be on the job. Down at the 
base, it's a sort of glorified picnic. 

I mentioned at the beginning of this about the 
cold, and spoke of it in the past tense. Tonight 
again it settled down in a regular Canadian freeze. 



134 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

I am sitting right on top of the stove, with my 
candle propped on somebody's parcels beside 
me. One side is cold, the other twenty-five 
degrees colder. It's rotten weather. We have 
lots and lots to strafe it for. 

15 February, '17. 

My life at present has got into a groove, it 
would seem, and each day is exactly alike. 
I have got used to bombardments. Even as I 
write, Fritz is almost directly above, and our 
men are trying after him on all sides. 

The thaw, I think, has set in for good, and it's 
more than welcome, though the mud and wet 
are pretty bad. I got a new pair of boots just 
in time, the first pair I've ever had in the army, 
so can keep fairly dry. 

Leave is stopped now for some days, and my 
little vacation seems as far off as ever. I suppose 
the trouble is in regard to boats. Fritz is sink- 
ing a lot of boats, a devil of a lot, and even though 
it seems so good that the U. S. has broken with 
Germany and all that, so many ships will not 
sail, and our supplies must be curtailed. I may 
be wrong — I hope I am — but I think this is 
an anxious time for us, and I believe history will 
show it. However we shall cope with it and 
overcome it, and that's the main thing. 

You will notice that a great many raids are 
being pulled off just now. A good many are 



UP THE LINE 135 

pulled off on our bit of front — any time of night 
now. All at the same second, a perfect roar 
starts up — every gun at once. It's rather mag- 
nificent while it lasts. Last night it was very 
dark while I was taking my messages, and the 
gun flares were most welcome as they lit up the 
road most opportunely. 

17 February, '17. 

The time for our battalion to send up a draft 
has come at last. I suppose I shouldn't write 
you tonight till I'm sure they won't want me; 
but I am pretty sure, not on this one. I think, 
when my name comes up, "not available" will 
be the order; I hope so anyhow. There's lots 
of time yet, lots of it. 

We are of course interested in this move on 
the Somme ; but no one seems to be enthusiastic 
because no one seems to quite understand it. 
The general opinion seems to be that Fritz has 
something up his sleeve; we seem to be sus- 
picious of "retirements"; we only understand 
complete annihilation by big gun fire. We 
hear now and then weird stories of a new and 
powerful shell, but nothing definite. One thing, 
however, I can vouch for. I have seen a copy of 
a German officer's (captured) report to his head- 
quarters, mentioning our using a new and ter- 
rible explosive. However, he may have been 
a green hand and got over-excited. A few days 



136 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

after I saw this, it appeared in the English papers 
— the copy of the captain's report, I mean. You 
can guess whether these communiques are inter- 
esting or not. I can't tell you of them, of course ; 
but I may say that we know the names of the 
company commanders in front of us on each 
sector of practically every relief; we know what 
regiments are in front; where they came from 
last; in what strength they are, and all about 
them; we know when they commence a new 
trench or sap, where it runs, when (if) it's fin- 
ished, and also all about it and many, many 
other things. How is it done? There you've 
got me. I dunno' ; but I do know it is done, 
because I see it. If any one says to you we 
haven't got an Intelligence Staff, you can afford 
to smile. . . . 

18 February, '17. 

. . . While on this subject, I'm afraid there 
are going to be some fierce ructions here and 
there in Canada, after the boys come home. I 
read an article the other day on "Slackers — 
the Army is Watching Them." The fellow who 
wrote this was an officer and he'd got his ideas 
from censoring the boys' mail. Every one who 
writes to a soldier tells him about the slacker 
who did not go : the girls — his own people — 
every one, and he writes back and says what he 
thinks of 'em. 



UP THE LINE 137 

He is too busy, and life is too jolly uncertain, 
to worry much about it — now. But wait, when 
he is home and feeling safe and good. Do you 
think he will want to pal in with a chap who stayed 
safe? I don't think. Do you think he will 
not rub it in now and then — maybe roughly ? 
I wonder if the slackers have ever thought of 
this. If they have — well, I'm sorry for them ; 
their thoughts can't be pleasant. 

20 February, '17. 

I often think how significant it is — how the 
world for years and years has covered itself 
with a sort of armour. Very clever it all was. 
People with money and no brains, to cover their 
lack of brains hedged themselves around and 
called the hedge class distinction, even educated 
themselves in separate schools, using a different 
accent and form of speech. What a joke ! Then 
along comes this war — more than a war, that 
word doesn't describe it — and off has to come 
the armour, and a man is just a man — or not 
— as God made him. What surprises, what 
shocks must have occurred ! But you can't real- 
ize it as I can, because you have never seen the 
home life of England as I have. 

Right here in our little shack is a splendid 
example. There's a young Englishman million- 
aire, an ideal boy at a pink tea, able to talk rot 
to women by the hour, very careful in his appear- 



138 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

ance — and quite useless to any one. Along 
comes the war and dear little F. enlists; he is a 
duck in his uniform, and holds his own right up 
till he reaches the front line ; then — falls all to 
pieces. Quite helpless — opinion worthless — 
just ignored. And then B. ! Quite useless at a 
pink tea, would be unnoticed anywhere at home. 
He runs an electric crane or something for a 
living, has worked ever since he could walk, 
nearly. Here, where things matter, B. is looked 
up to, his opinion counts ; he wins promotion ; 
an ideal man to live with, a hustler and a man. 

Now — when it's over what's going to happen ? 
Do we drift back in the same groove ? 

I tell you yes, with a slight difference, only — 
F. again will be the pretty useless doll (only more 
so as he'll talk F. and war) ; but only till he gets 
in company with those who have been and seen. 
Then he'll beat it, of course. B. will be as be- 
fore, too. He'll never talk war ; but he'll have 
added a number of staunch friends, friends for life. 

And that is my opinion of how it will be. These 
cases are typical of many thousands of others ; 
it just happens that I live with the two extremes. 

Curious. 

There doesn't seem to be anything else, just 
yet, happening between the U. S. and Fritz, 
but I really think it will be war. Lens has not 
opened up yet and there are no signs that it will 
lift. There's a fellow I came up with from Le 



UP THE LINE 139 

Havre due back tonight. I used to knock 
around with him quite a bit. He was LCpl. 
here. As he knew something of bombing they 
made him Sgt. Instructor. He learned on the 
Somme, by the way. He taught me here. One 
day while teaching a bunch of recruits, a fellow 
lost his nerve — they do sometimes — and after 
pulling out the pin, got scared and dropped the 
bomb into the next bay where there were three 
officers and a man. There was just five seconds 
to act. G. ran around the bay, picked up the 
bomb and just got it over the parapet in time. . . . 

3 March, '17. 
My very dear Lai, 

The weather still remains most boisterous and 
stormy, the wind is terribly cold too, and there 
seems little chance of the wind decreasing any 
as yet. 

I saw something this morning most interesting ; 
a large number of our boys going through an 
attack as nearly similar to what they will have to 
contend with as possible. They used flares and 
worked in conjunction with aeroplanes circling 
a few feet above. The planes signalled, "Morse 
code", I think, with motor horns. It was most 
realistic. Signalling the lifting of the barrage 
was rather amusing. Two men with white flags 
advanced ahead, and were supposed to represent 
it. Hardly looked the real thing. Any thought 



140 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

of a home manoeuvre or sham battle, though, must 
be quickly dispelled, when you remember that in 
a very short while it will be done again through a 
hell of real fire. 

(I wondered last night if I am taking too many 
liberties with green envelopes. In Orders were 
four battalions who had lost the privilege through 
one man being indiscreet. The name of the in- 
dividual one was published. I think I'd sooner be 
shot than have my battalion lose through me, — 
I guess I would be, anyway, — I must be very 
careful.) 

In bed — most uncomfortable ! ! ! ! 

The runner who goes for the mail returned with 
some awful news, tonight — awful ! The 29th 
want twenty more men on Tuesday, and I don't 
think there are twenty men here, so — your uncle 
will have to partee (French for beat it). B. sent 
me the news with a message that a pal of ours 
had volunteered to go as he had not got cold feet. 
I'm sending him a message that he has to go, too. 
I've been making a cover for my Gillette tonight 
out of waterproof silk usually used on wounds — 
also one for my diary (for I keep a diary now) in 
anticipation. 

Personally I think I'm lucky to have got the 
worst of the winter over in positive luxury. 

I hate (and fear) cold and wet; but when the 
sun shines and it's warm, I'm awful brave, ready 
to eat up all the Fritzes in France. 



UP THE LINE 141 

I particularly hope they make me a stretcher 
bearer ; but they may not. There's no honour in 
the damn job, and no chance of advancement, or 
anything but work. But I like the work and I 
understand it a little, while I hate looking after a 
beastly gun and forming fours and all that. If 
I'm not a stretcher bearer, I shall try my best to 
be a bomber or a gunner — something you can 
specialize on. 

17th of Ireland, '17. 

My very dearest Kid : — 

A few days ago, I was sent out as stretcher 
bearer to a party going up to work farther up the 
line. I was tickled to death, as this place, after 
five months, is getting monotonous. We marched 
off in the afternoon with full kit : two blankets, 
tin hat of course, and all, and believe me I was 
thankful I didn't have a rifle to carry nor am- 
munition, only a few medical supplies, — just 
bandages and dressings, and a bottle of iodine in 
case of bad accidents. There is always a field 
ambulance somewhere near. 

Well — we eventually arrived and found our 
billets, in huts like I have told you of, and like the 
pictures you have seen of the Y.M. huts. Inside 
are rows of bunks three high, with chicken wire 
as a mattress. Anyway that night, hearing the 
29th were near, I set out to find them, which I did 
after a long hunt, in a village. There I met B. 



142 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

and all the others I knew, and stayed the night, 
borrowing an overcoat and blanket to sleep in. 
I half wish I'd come for good. They seem a great 
crowd. 

I have always been under the impression that 
it was busy back where we were; but up there 
was a surprise. No word of mine could begin to 
describe it — even if I were allowed. It's terrific 
— absolutely unbelievable. Miles and miles in 
endless procession of munitions and men. 

Wait while she opens up — and you'll hear all 
about it. 

Next day, I went out with my party, who were 
to keep a railroad track which runs right into the 
support trenches, — a positive cinch for me — 
nothing to do at all. One fellow cut himself with 
the shovel. Another fellow had a sore heel. 
And another fellow had to go with the field am- 
bulance ; he had the grippe, and they kept him 
there. That was all I had in the few days. 

Next night, the Corporal in charge and myself 
took over a tent and moved in with the party 
rations. It was about a foot deep in mud and 
water; but you get used to that, and with a kit 
bag, which I used sleeping bag fashion, and several 
sandbags I slept fine. Read awhile — "The 
American Prisoner" by Phillpotts — by the light 
of two candles stuck on my tin hat at the head 
of my bed in the mud. It was altogether much 
cosier than in the hut, more private, and nicer 



UP THE LINE 143 

everyway. The Corporal wasn't a bad fellow, 
either, and we got on well. 

I can't tell you exactly when I'll go up; but 
about any time, I think. I am quite ready ; the 
days are warmer, though the nights are still cold. 
I am anxious to go ; the sight up there got me all 
excited. To be out of it is to be out of everything 
worth while. I would not miss the beginning for 
anything. . . . 

One of the boys tells me it is awfully dark and 
hard to find your way in the trenches at night. I 
guess this will be rather rotten for me, because 
my eyes are none too good at night. 

I am thinking about you and storing up things 
to tell you about all the time, though I won't be 
able to tell you anything yet awhile. 

I never do or see anything that you do not 
share with me in spirit. 

Good-bye for a day or so, Lai dearest. 

18 March, '17. 

Things are still going jolly fine. You have 
read often about the cages we put the German 
prisoners in. Well, I have been busy this two days 
helping make one of barbed wire. It's some way 
from here and we go over in auto trucks. Today 
it was fine but beastly cold; I nearly froze. 
Yesterday, when we were working, who should 
go by but two of my very old tent mates from 
No. 3, who had left later than we and gone to 



144 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

another outfit camped near here. We may see 
something of them, as they are attached to the 
2nd Div. too. . . . 

We passed two observation balloons yesterday. 
You have seen pictures of them; they look big 
enough to fly away with the engine affair which 
holds them down by what looked to me a terribly 
thin cable. Aeroplanes, of course, are over all 
the time — ours. I haven't seen any of Fritz's 
yet. The guns are going most of the time. At 
night, you can hear the machine guns, too. Every- 
thing is all most casual and "every day alike." 
Last night we went for an evening stroll. A 
Frenchman, passing, said, 

"Masshin — Masshin pop-pop-pop — No bon-no 
bon — No — no bon, M'sieur." — referring to a 
machine gun in the distance. 

I mention this to give you an idea of a passing 
salutation of the evening "out here." You would 
probably say "it's a fair night." Both remarks 
would have the same enthusiasm or spirit. "It's 
an awful war," to quote a popular phrase. 

Harold Chapin in his letters said he had heard 
more genuine laughter out here than anywhere else 
in his life — I guess he was right too — human 
nature is queer. 

SI March, '17. 
My Ownest Lai : — 

I am writing this on my knee by an old oil can 
which has been made into a stove in one of the 



UP THE LINE 145 

familiar huts away down along the line — for again 
I have been sent out as S.B. for a working party. 

This morning, I got my orders to come and 
relieve a man who has been out here some time. 
So I packed up my belongings, few as they are, 
and set out on my hike. I hadn't much to carry, 
the steel helmet and gas mask being the heaviest 
items, I guess. I got a loaf of bread, a tin of jam, 
a can of beans and some cocoa, so I wouldn't 
starve. It was a cold day and snowing a bit. 
Shortly, however, I hit a stalled motor lorry, and 
got a lift a good part of the way. I soon found the 
party's billets in a hut right next the Y.M., and 
found the other S.B. He had fixed things up for 
himself some, had a little table affair with a real 
drawer, and had collected a good stock of medi- 
cine from the adjacent field ambulance. His bed 
looked real cosy in the middle tier of bunks. I 
took it all over from him, and have now settled 
down. He has just gone and supper will soon be 
here — and the boys in. It looks like a fine job, 
if it lasts. 

I act as M.O. absolutely, and am responsible. 
In this case, I don't go out with the work party, 
but stay in the hut. Sick parade is at seven, 
when I see which men should go in the field am- 
bulance and see the doctor. Any man who gets 
hurt out on the work they send for me. The rest 
— the cough medicines, binding up cuts, and so 
forth — I do here at night. 



146 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Next day. 

Went to bed early. My predecessor certainly 
left things jake. He has four blankets and a rub- 
ber coat. At the head of the bed, he'd rigged up 
an old biscuit tin which makes a swell candle 
stand. It was as cosy as could be (you will note 
I still turn in early to read). 

Sometime during the night, I was wakened up 
by a battalion coming in to sleep in spare bunks. 
They had just come out of the trenches — been 
in ten days — and were coming out for a ten days' 
rest. They had no blankets, and it was snowing 
hard outside; but I never heard a kick. Guess 
they were too glad to be "out." 

The last time I saw this well-known battalion 
was on review at Shorncliffe. I remember how 
well they looked, every kilt swinging in line. I'd 
like you to see a battalion come out fresh from the 
line. You wouldn't believe it. The Scotch cap 
had given place to the steel helmet and the kilts 
to trousers and puttees — what you could see of 
'em for mud. Though they only arrived about 
one or two a.m., their Field Kitchen at seven 
a.m. had hot tea, bacon and bread, and jam and 
cheese for them, so good is the system, and it 
never breaks down. . . . 

The only thing I fear is the weather, the wet, 
the cold, the long nights and the mud — not the 
shells, though I guess I'll fear them enough later. 



UP THE LINE 147 

And every day spent here means nearer the 
warmer weather. . . . 

You will be tremendously impressed with the 
big retreat — many seem to think it very smart 
of Fritz making us begin all over again; but I 
think it is not thoroughly understood. It is a 
retreat — that's the main thing. 

Understand writing is always most difficult now. 
Sitting on gasoline tins round a wee brazier made 
out of an oil can — it's almost impossible, but I'll 
do my best. 

22 March, '17. 
My dearest Lai : 

Yesterday I went back to work on another of 
those "cage" things I was telling you about, a 
small one this time — cosy, two huts and every- 
thing fine — too fine in my opinion. 

I am getting quite an expert at the wire en- 
tanglement business, and if any Fritz can get 
through the path I made, he'll have to go some. 
In the evening, I had a most interesting conversa- 
tion with Fritz. I rather hated to do it. He was 
wearing the Iron Cross Ribbon which he had won 
twice, and I couldn't help thinking of the numbers 
of our men he must have killed to win it. I asked 
him if he had got it for killing Canadians. He 
was most pitifully emphatic in trying to convince 
me he had only been up against the French (of 
course) . But what got me was his total inability 



148 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

to grasp the fact that this war could last over this 
Christmas, with a victory for Germany, of course. 
He told me it was a total and complete impossi- 
bility to take Bapaume. He was quite serious. 
He considers the war as won. So it is ! I cannot 
understand it. If the German soldiers think like 
that, how can you blame the civilians ? It would 
seem to me that any intelligent man, — and many 
of their prisoners seem very intelligent — could 
not help reading the signs, even from the narrow 
confines of a prison camp. Every man they see 
has victory written all over him. They couldn't 
look up in the air at any time of the day, without 
seeing one of our aircraft coming or going in per- 
fect peace. Our observation balloons are plain 
to see, all day. No one molests them. It would 
seem to me that this gross ignorance of the real 
condition is going to prolong the war more than 
anything else. . . . 

29 March, '17. 

I didn't finish my letter last night, I was too 
cold. This morning is the wildest day we've had 
for a month, a tremendous wind, and rain and cold. 
There certainly won't be many planes up today; 
they couldn't last a second. 

The other night, after I had finished writing 
you and was just off to sleep, all of a sudden what 
sounded like all the guns in the world opened up 
at once, and sleep was out of the question. I 



UP THE LINE 14d 

always wish, when I hear or see anything so 
magnificent, so powerful as that, that you could 
be with me for a while. Here is like having a 
front seat out of danger. I read somewhere that 
to imagine a modern bombardment, you must think 
of the greatest thunderstorm you have heard and 
then compare it with a little boy beating a drum ; 
and I guess that's about right. Myself, I never 
can help thinking of all the ground and stuff being 
churned up, where the shells are all bursting. It's 
undoubtedly awe-inspiring and magnificent. It's 
unimagineable how anything could possibly live in 
the face of it. We all thought that the big strafe 
had begun ; but evidently it wasn't so. 

I think that Fritz will have his hands full to 
hold the Arras-Cambrae-St. Quentin line, and 
I believe he thinks that the time we shall take 
coming up and attacking him can be utilized by 
him on another front, say the Russian front. 

But I believe we intend to fool him. I think we 
are going to drive him on this front, beyond any- 
thing that has happened on the so-called Somme 
front. 

We may even take Lens and Lille ; we may do 
anything. 

One thing I can assure you of positively; that 
the Somme front is not to be the only one where 
we shall have big battles. 

Whether we can win this year or not, I cannot 
think. 



150 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

America coming in, which now seems certain, 
is bound to make a difference; but all our efforts 
might be cancelled, at least in part, if Austria had 
big successes in Italy, or Russia could not make 
good. 

Chances of revolution in Germany seem to me 
to be too remote to entertain seriously. There 
is no doubt in my mind that Canada is going to 
take a larger part in this coming battle. It is 
really up to us. We didn't take the worst end at 
the Somme, last year; the Australians are there 
again, as you will know, so I guess we cannot kick. 

We'll hope it won't be so bad. I hear it on an 
eye witness's authority that a gun in this scrap will 
only have to play on four yards of Fritz's front. 

Life is just living. I mean eating and sleeping 
and "getting by" — if you understand. Meals 
are eaten standing up ; an old gasoline can as a 
seat by the stove is a lucky grab off, as there's 
such a crowd. For instance, bunks are in three 
tiers. That means nine men in a space about four 
feet broad. You eat off your mess tin, and wade 
through the mud to the cookhouse for your grub. 
As a matter of fact, I am now just an animal, 
a tiny unit for use in this vast scheme, or a tiny 
bit of machinery, to be kept alive — only just 
alive and useful at the least possible expense and 
room. That of course is war ; I thoroughly under- 
stand it. It's quite alright, and the proper thing. 
I have no kick. But I want you to grasp all that, 



UP THE LINE 151 

so you can understand my letters. The trenches 
are full of mud and water, and my life by com- 
parison is positive luxury. 

The rations are not so bad. I'll tell you what 
we get exactly. In the morning, about a pint of 
tea — (good and strong as a rule) either beans — 
(two to a can) or a rasher of bacon. At dinner, 
a spoonful of jam, and a hunk of cheese and tea. 
Supper, tea again — and stew, or mulligan as the 
army calls it, and the twenty -four hours' bread 
ration, usually a third of a loaf. Sometimes there 
is an extra, though seldom ; a kind of date paste ; 
one day there were oranges. But of course by the 
time they get as far up as this, the various "cease 
fire" outfits they have passed through only leave 
enough for a ration of three men to one orange, 
which is what we got. It doesn't sound very re- 
markable, but it's enough to keep you fit ; it does 
me anyway. In the line, the bread mostly has 
to give way to biscuits ; but when "out" eats are 
again good. A parcel is naturally an event of 
great importance. 

I have been given another party again today, 
making three in all. I have to handle all the sick 
reports for each party, and fix up all the trivial 
cuts and bruises, and medicines. In addition, 
there are various parties without any "Croix 
Rouge" man attached, such as Isolated Machine 
Gun Companies and odd parties from heavy bat- 
teries, who are wise to my being here. Of course 



152 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

I fix up any of them who come, am very glad to. 
I like the work; it interests me. It is, too, un- 
doubtedly necessary work, and I must say I prefer 
work which seems to be real — and worth-while. 

1 April, 1917. 

As I said previously, I have changed my job. 
A chance came along to get into the Medical Hut 
or dressing station of the Battalion. I took it, 
partly because I want the practical experience, 
more in medicine of which I know nothing; and 
partly it is of course a little superior job. The 
one thing I didn't like was leaving B. and the old 
shack, though of course I see him several times a 
day. My new home is altogether better, only 
two of us in a larger room with electric lights and 
stove, with a regular mine of coal from the Q. M. 
stores. I sleep on a stretcher on a couple of boxes 
which makes a very fair bed. My new com- 
panion I don't know very well as yet. The work 
is continuous, though of course not hard. I help 
the others and the M. O. on morning sick parade, 
which is sometimes very heavy. We're busy 
through the day with civilian population. Sur- 
prising to you I guess it will be that we attend 
them; but we do, the whole town. They call 
through the day, others leave messages for us to 
call at their homes. There are more of these 
cases than there are soldiers. We get everything 
from bad cases to little seven-year-old kids who 



UP THE LINE 153 

cut their fingers (I dressed a little boy's hand this 
morning — a wee cut — but I put it in a sling and 
he is a hero) . Of course, all this is free of charge. 
Bad cases we take all day amongst the troops. 
The regular sick parade is in the morning. At 
night — at six p.m. we do dressing again. 

We cook our own rations, which are very ample, 
in the sick room, a house just across from where I 
sleep, and we eat and sleep more like civilized 
people than like soldiers, which is some blessing. 
The hours are long, from about six-thirty till nine 
or ten p.m. I like it. Of course it may not last 
long — maybe a month, maybe six months ; you 
cannot tell. They may need us in the line any time. 
In cases where the patient is very bad, we send him 
to the field ambulance which is usually in some 
chateau or school. If he is only temporarily bad, 
they keep him until he is well, then return him to 
us ; if bad enough for base hospital, they ship him 
to the dressing station down the line, and so on. 

Our pay is delayed this time for some reason. 
I haven't had the price of a paper, even, for over 
a week — the boys down here are just the same. 

Our guns brought a Fritz down here this a.m., 
with the assistance of some of our planes which 
drove him this way. 

And now I must quit. Supper is to get ready, 
and then the evening parade of sick. 

Give Dad's love to little Billie. And best love 
to you. 



IV 
IN THE TRENCHES 



IV 
IN THE TRENCHES 

2 April, '17 (morning). 

The weather has taken a turn for the worse, 
most bitterly cold and the ground covered with 
snow again. Snow over mud, ugh ! ! ! Imagine 
it, if you can. Under these conditions, thank the 
Lord I am well — most tremendously so. 

All my kit is packed, on the expectation of hav- 
ing half an hour's warning. 

All is good. 

A tin hat, a gas mask, a razor, a towel, a tube 
of medicated vaseline (swiped) for my boots, a 
knife, fork, and spoon. That's about all. Your 
woolly hat is worth its weight in ten dollar bills. 
It isn't quite the same colour as it was, but I'd 
sooner lose anything than that. 

Even at this, my kit feels heavy enough. 

The snow drove a plane down just now. He 
was not hurt and flew up again, when the storm 
blew over. It must be desperately cold for them 
and the observation balloon men. 

I'm getting quite a lot of work now; lots of 
men seem to be going sick. Nothing serious, but 

157 



158 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

still sick — boils, and so on. My last party con- 
sisted of French Canadians ; only a few can speak 
English. It's funny. You'd laugh to hear me, 
" Take those two mit now — and this one apres 
midi — and again ce soir" 

The horses are standing this weather very badly. 
At least ten are shot every morning and thrown 
into an old disused trench. . . . 

4 April, '17. 
My dearest Lai, — 

Yesterday I was out to see my old friends where 
I had been working, and where I wrote you from. 
While there the runner came in and said there 
was a small draft of soldiers going up to the 
29th. There are plenty of men here now, as a 
big truck came up from the base a couple of 
days ago. 

On the way home — it was a glorious spring 
evening — I came to the conclusion that I couldn't 
wait to be put on a draft, but put myself on. It 
seems to me that this business of dodging drafts 
is getting overdone — I mean by the men who 
have never been up. When a man has been up 
and come back recovered from wounds, I don't 
blame him a bit for trying to dodge going up till 
some of the new bunch have had to go. So when 
I reached town, I went and saw B. who is making 
up the draft. He had the list full, but took a 
man off and put me on. 



IN THE TRENCHES 159 

So now, you know. On Sat. — "I parti pour la 
tranchay," and I feel all excited. 

I am busy sewing holes in my trousers, putting 
buttons on, and so on. I have very little to pack, 
but I have lots of odd wants in the way of equip- 
ment to get, my rifle to get in condition again, 
and all that. We have an O.C. inspection at 
ten a.m. Sat., and then off we go. I feel awfully 
well, and as keen as mustard. 

I don't know what you will think of my de- 
cision ; but I hope you will approve. It is much 
better to go than wait to be sent, when it looks 
as if you had been hanging back. 

Just before Easter. Evening. 

I am finishing this off in bed. It's impossible 
to sit up in bed, or my head hits the next bunk ; 
but I'm managing rather well, have got three 
candles on my tin hat and my pack makes a fair 
desk. It's quite warm in here tonight. We 
captured an extra big oil drum today, and have 
made a swell stove. It's just at the end of my 
bunk; the pipe runs out through a door. Every 
thing is very primitive. I'm living right down to 
brass tacks now. My kit consists of only the 
very barest necessities : two pairs of socks, no 
change of shirt. Even at that, it's enough to 
look after, and pack away at a second's notice. 
As things are here now, kit is very plentiful, as 
fellows just leave everything behind when they 



160 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

move. I wear your woolen hat, a pair of high 
rubber boots (worth about twenty bucks this 
weather) and long rubber cape. When I go, I'll 
just leave it behind. 

A 29th Sgt. friend of mine, has just pulled in 
with another working party, and tells me I have 
to be "the doc." to their party too. That's 
alright. I like it. I'm "the doc." to everybody. 
As a matter of fact I am more conscientious and 
go to ten times more trouble under these condi- 
tions than I would if I had some one over me. 

I hear again that our battalion is away over 
strength, so I guess, if I'm lucky, I'll miss the 
first big battle, which will be the hardest of 
course. You may or may not know that Im- 
perials took the brunt of the Somme. When the 
Canadians got there, it was more open fighting, 
though God knows it was bad enough. 

This time, unless I am mistaken, the Canucks 
are going to open the game; but it's going to be 
very, very different from the Somme in many 
ways. All the way back here, the ground is 
marked out with tapes and flags, arranged ac- 
cording to our pictures exactly as Fritz has his 
trenches in front of the particular battalion which 
will take that section. So, if the officers get 
killed, the men know just what to do. The bat- 
talions have been made familiar with them. I 
have been over some of them; they seem very 
complicated. Fritz must know what's coming. 



IN THE TRENCHES 161 

As far as I can see, we don't give a damn whether 
he knows or not. White tents are dotted in the 
fields all over here, and he's up in the air all the 
time. Last year, too, the green envelopes were 
cut out — remember ? Not this year, though ; 
I got an issue yesterday. 

We are going to give him a tremendous licking 
right here, I am absolutely sure of it ; every tiniest 
detail is perfect. The men are splendid — no sick. 

The battalions even shine up their brass work 
now, and are all over strength. 

The guns and supplies are beyond anything ever 
known before in any battle in the world. The 
food is plentiful and good. 

Confidence is absolutely the limit — Every one 
is laughing and cheery as a lot of kids. 

You must try and understand now that it is 
harder for me to write even scrappy stuff like this, 
than great long letters before. We must leave 
psychological questions till this is over now. I 
cannot bother to figure on things like what may 
happen after I get home. 

Please send parcels regularly, little ones and 
frequent. Socks, a shirt (we never get a bath 
now, there is nowhere to bathe), cake (no candy), 
a towel, soap, a can of cafe au lait, half a pound 
of butter, if you think it would keep. . . . 

And now I must quit. My shoulder is about 
dislocated, and my left arm is asleep. The man 
in the top bunk has gone to bed and the wire 



162 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

netting has sunk on to my head, so you'll forgive 
me, eh ? 

Tell Billie Dad is thinking about her all the 
time, but cannot say much about her just now. 

I am wonderfully well, absolutely great, and 
jake all round, and, with everybody, keen and 
hopeful of the future, and just tickled to death 
every day that I have left the base and am here 
doing a really bit. 

As regards my wee personal interest in it all, 
it seems that my luck has been so wonderfully 
good all along that it must be going to stay with 
me. Let's hope so. 

Good luck, Kiddie. Don't worry more than 
you can help. 

Next Day. 

It's about nine-thirty or ten — I've just got up 
(active service), made our bed, which consists of 
folding up four blankets and a rubber sheet, swept 
the floor (we soon pinched a broom) . The floor is 
six by eight feet so sweeping is not exactly a kill- 
ing job. The debris, as it does in all of France I 
have seen, is thrown in the middle of the street 
to wait for a horse and cart to take it away. Of 
course we only live amongst the working classes 
and the peasants, but I have never yet seen water 
laid on in a house. There is a well or a pump 
somewhere down the street, usually surrounded 
by very dirty and very numerous children, many 
as young as four years old, with all kinds and con- 



IN THE TRENCHES 163 

ditions of pails and cans, usually far, far too big 
for them to carry. When you go to get a mess 
tin full, the majority of them clamour for "one 
cigarette" — "one pennee." The very youngest 
little girls smoke cigarettes without their mother's 
minding a bit. ... I have yet to see a clean, 
fresh peach of a child. Of course you must have 
in mind this is war time, the people are dog poor, 
the men are away, the Germans are only three 
miles away. It is a mining district, and their 
houses are all occupied by "foreigners." 

The fire is going fine. We got some lovely 
coal last night (after dark), and we just had two 
swell pieces of toast. W. swiped a can of real 
butter from somewhere last night. I see it was 
made in a hermitage in Brittany. On the toast, 
I had Golden Syrup, a ration now, and a good 
one, too. Also a quart of strong tea, and now I 
feel all jake and comfy. A fellow gave me a 
package of "Old Chum ", rotten stuff, better than 
the issue. I'm smoking your pipe — the old one. 
The only thing wanted to make the running perfect 
is the newspaper, but neither Sergeant T. or your 
noble uncle possesses three ha'pence to buy one. 

In a minute I'm going to fetch a tin of water, 
put it on the stove and have a jolly good wash 
and shave. I even shine my shoes on this job. 
Before I go to work at one, I shall try a captured 
Spanish onion in a mess tin of bacon fat, a present 
from a friendly cook, also some slices of real ham 



164 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

(not a present from any one), have another quart 
of strong tea, and a piece of cake which a fellow 
got from home and gave me last night. Tonight 
at seven, I shall have a full course dinner at the 
Officers' mess at eleven o'clock. B. will have the 
bed down and a good fire left. 

But remember ; tomorrow, or the next day, or 
the next, my home may be a ditch, with a nasty 
German looking for my goat in another ditch only 
a few yards away. Sitting here in lazy comfort, 
it's almost impossible — that war is all round and 
up in the air. If I were to walk out of this door 
far as from 77 to Central Station, then back, and 
repeat the distance — I'd be in Fritzie's line. 

Yet here I am in absolute comfort, with voices 
of women and kids on all sides. 

No, I wasn't on the draft — I thought that I 
wouldn't be (I'm too valuable a man to send up). 

Today there may be a letter. Always that's 
the main thought of the day. And when that 
day's gone, I always say, — "Well, there's to- 
morrow soon here." 

Right after Easter Sunday, 1917. 
My darling Lai : — 

I was in the big scrap, right from the beginning. 

Am writing this in an underground cave. I 
have no paper or anything. This should be the 
greatest letter I ever wrote you. . . . 



IN THE TRENCHES 165 

I never got a scratch, though you can bet I had 
some near shaves. Holy Gee ! and my first ex- 
perience under shell fire, too ! I was plumb scared 
to death. I've got to admit it ; but I think only 
I knew it. Long before you get this, of course 
you will hear the story of our advance. I told you 
it was coming quick ; didn't I ? 

Up to tonight, our division has two thousand 
prisoners, and they are still coming in. We have 
no news ; we only know what is happening in our 
brigade. 

The shelling is — well — - 1 dunno' — there isn't 
a word. . . . 

I was ahead of the tanks. 

They were no use — too slow. 

The arrangements went off without a hitch; 
the barrage was exact and splendid. I never saw 
one Fritz plane all day. 

I saw more of the battle than any other Cana- 
dian. I was detailed to carry films and plates for 
the moving picture man ! 

I volunteered for it — grabbed it awful quick, 
when I heard of it. I was ahead of the 29th, and 
we took a film of 'em, going in. 

Remember, every Canadian and English picture 
you see of the battle, your Hub passed the plate, 
and stood there. 

There's a lot of 'em, so look out. Try to see 
the Canadian Records pictures. 

I am awful well — but worn out. 



166 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Our casualties have been light. The artillery 
did the trick. Every object was taken at the 
exact second as arranged — wonderful ! 

The Germans were a very fine lot indeed, clean 
and smart-looking; they were absolutely out- 
classed. 

The photograph chap, a Captain, is absolutely 
fearless, and stood on "the top" to take pictures. 
I didn't let him beat me ; I went where he went — 
but I dunno' how I got away with it. 

Some of the pictures are to appear in the Daily 
Mirror. 

I have lost all my kit — my razor — every- 
thing. Send me an Ever-ready Safety, please. 

If only I could have got away with the souvenirs, 
I'm sure I'd be a rich man. The only thing I 
grabbed was a Fritz water bottle, as I was thirsty. 

I had lunch in his third line trench on him : 
sour brown bread, two kinds of sausage — awful 
stuff ! Cheese, two bottles of wine, and all kinds 
of cigars and cigarettes. 

Our guns have advanced up in the open now. 

I saw the cavalry go in. 

You forget all about the machine guns and 
rifles ; it's the shells. The noise is so great you 
don't hear Fritz's till it's on you. If you flop in 
time, you're alright; but the air is full of flying 
metal all the time. 

We captured a big general. 

One battalion captured a field hospital complete. 



IN THE TRENCHES 167 

It was the biggest day of my life. I can't quite 
understand how it's possible to live through a day 
like that ; but the casualties were really very light 
indeed. I am, for tonight, in a big underground 
cave with passages hundreds of yards long. I 
haven't shaved or washed for four days now. You 
are so doped with weariness and excitement that 
you don't worry about such discomforts. I have 
no idea what I am going to do, even tomorrow. 

I don't know if the Canadians are going to be 
relieved, or not ; or how far the advance has gone, 
or anything. You see, each brigade went over the 
top of the other; we hear the Imperials may go 
over the top of us. 

Fritz still shells us all day. One dropped within 
thirty feet of me this afternoon, and I hadn't time 
to drop ; but was never touched. 

I think of you all the time, dearie, all the time. 

I am as cheerful as I can be, and hoping for 
the best. 

Don't worry, dear — please. 

I am to be stretcher bearer with "B" Company 
of my battalion. 

I met one of my pals being carried out by two 
Heinies — a lovely Blighty he had, through the 
flesh of the thigh. Lucky devil ! 

All the Fritz prisoners are nothing but stretcher 
bearers. 

I can only wonder what Canada is thinking; 
but surely she is proud. It is a wonderful day. 



168 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Easter Monday — everybody so smiling and 
happy. Our battalion repelled a counter attack, 
and ripped 'em up. 

I was right amongst a bunch of tanks, when 
Fritz got a range on 'em and fairly surrounded 'em 
with big shells. Gee ! I was glad to beat it. 

It's very cold and snowy — confound it. Au 
9 voir, dear. 

God bless you. 

I think — Thursday after Easter Sunday, '17. 
My very dearest Kid : — 

I guess we'll go in again. In the meantime 
I am kept here with a party getting ammunition 
up from the cars — the most desperately hard 
work I've ever thought of — and dumping it out- 
side. Climbing up is the hard part, and going 
overland seventy or eighty yards to the guns a 
little risky. Every day somebody gets killed. 
Yesterday Fritz wounded three of his own men 
who were carrying out our wounded, and killed 
one of our fellows this afternoon. 

I was hoping we would be relieved, too, as I 
haven't washed or shaved since we came in. 
Water for tea has to be fetched in gasoline cans, 
two each, from down a trench a long way, just 
this side of Nouvelle St. Vaast — or what is left 
of it. I am quite well — very. 

If the battalion goes in again in a day or so, I 
guess I'll go with them. They'll need us. I can't 



IN THE TRENCHES 169 

say I'm looking forward to it; but of course I 
understand what it means, and that it is what I 
am here for. 

I wish it wasn't so cold. If only the people at 
home understand this war and what we boys 
suffer — and never a holler ! How little I under- 
stood, even up to a week ago ; yet I'm glad I'm 
here. It is my place. 

The Fritzies here work very hard and uncom- 
plainingly and willingly with our wounded ; every 
one has remarked on it. 

They were a fine appearing body, too, those op- 
posed to us. Of course nothing could last under 
our bombardment. It was magnificent — awful. 
It was a walkover for our boys. Casualties were 
light, very ; but of course — in proportion, I 
mean — 

If only we could get news ! We know nothing, 
only rumours. 

Yesterday I was over the No Man's Land (of 
yesterday). I found some cans of Fritz's bully 
beef — I don't like it much. But the desolation 
— my God, it's unbelievable ! Even old skulls 
unearthed by shells — French — from the early 
days of the war ! And debris of every conceivable 
description, German and English mixed ! 

Our barrage was marvellous, a perfect curtain. 
Nothing could live, and nothing did. The pris- 
oners surrendered from deep dugouts, or were 
smoked out, or bombed in. 



170 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Do you remember once telling me you didn't 
believe those moving pictures were genuine, that 
no one would risk his life for dollars ? I thought 
of that remark more than once on Monday — 
with a grin — as I followed Captain C. up "on 
top" to get a picture, when down in a shell hole 
seemed the only possible place. He was the limit, 
that man, brave as a lion. We got some splendid 
pictures, and of course you'll see them — both 
the movies and the official Canadian Records 
pictures. As I told you, I'm in several. 

We had some narrow escapes, of course. 
Luckily we got inside of Heinie's barrage and were 
comparatively safe from shells of that kind. (It's 
queer how you forget machine and rifle bullets.) 
I suppose this cave will be used for other purposes 
now. One day I'd like you to come to see it. I 
don't think any of the battle fields can ever be 
used for agricultural purposes or anything again. 
You can't understand. No one can but those here. 
Every square yard contains unexploded bombs 
and shells and munitions ; rusty tangled wire is all 
over, and holes, — just all holes — that's all there 
is. Front line trenches are no trenches at all, 
really — only connected shell holes, half full of 
water. 

How we exist, let alone "carry on", I don't 
know. Yet you never hear a kick. 

For my own part, I haven't been tried out yet. 
I haven't done a "trip in", let alone "go over the 



IN THE TRENCHES 171 

bags." I can never be too thankful, though, that I 
saw this big battle as an eyewitness, right close up, 
and that you will have a picture record of it. . . . 

Don't know the day but sometime in April — 
(ground covered with snow). We are in "Battle 
order" — no packs or blanket or anything. 

My dearest Lallie : — 

I have just spent the most gloriously comfy 
night possible tucked in a Heinie Officer's dugout 
(and they are some palaces) and have just heard 
the joyful news we are going "out." Conse- 
quently I am just delirious with high spirits. . . . 

Lai dear, how I wish over and over and over 
again that I could tell you of all this. You know 
how interested I am in " things ", how I observe 
everything and immediately want to tell you of 
it. Yet — here I am, with so much to say, and 
can't, because there is so much. 

I have read, with you, all the big descriptive 
writers' accounts of the "front line", yet no one 
has ever even begun to show me it, no one can 
describe it. You must see it, live it, and live it as 
a private in the line. Some one has said — 
"nothing is unendurable because all has been en- 
dured." That is true. I have worked till I 
thought surely it was impossible to continue, yet 
continued. I have lived through cold nights and 
wet and mud, and felt certain tomorrow would see 
me all in ; yet I wasn't. Only one thing is as I 



172 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

thought ; I fear the wet and cold worse than the 
shells. 

What shall I tell you ? You don't want to hear 
about narrow escapes, and shell fire, and all that 
stuff. It's too common — 

I'll tell you of little things. 

The first night "in" here, after the big battle, 
we took up positions way over Fritzie's tenth or 
twelfth line. He was right to think Vimy Ridge 
untakable. It was. But a man can advance 
behind a shell curtain which does not leave a 
blade of grass (if there was such a thing) un- 
touched. The enemy is bound to go to his dug- 
outs, and as the curtain passes over him, all he 
has to do is to come out and surrender — those 
who are not buried. No one can blame Fritz for 
thinking we couldn't take this place. Machinery 
did it, guns and mathematical planning, in this 
instance without a mistake. 

But — s'nuff. 

Since the day I left our little comfy base, I 
haven't had a day from the Zone unless a dugout 
is "out of it." Fritz isn't bothering us such an 
awful lot; but he's trying to get the advanced 
batteries and searching his old lines and roads all 
the time. Of course he knows the exact positions, 
and it's trying. 

The first night "in", I honestly nearly died with 
cold. Next day I was wandering around and 
found a practically untouched officers' dugout. 



IN THE TRENCHES 173 

It's the limit, all boarded up, with a sitting-room, 
and swell bunks with shavings for a mattress. I 
told others, and a pal of mine, young V. R. ; and 
we moved in. It's heavenly. The door faces the 
wrong way ; but only a direct hit in the entrance 
could get us, and there are two entrances, so we 
could hardly get buried. R. and I with our two 
overcoats slept most absurdly comfortable; ra- 
tions came up, even bread, and a letter from you, 
so we haven't a complaint — particularly now as 
we hear we are going out tonight for a few days' 
rest. 

Water is the only difficulty, as we have to get it 
out of shell holes. 

Yesterday I came upon some typewritten orders 

of Heinies, and handed them in but I don't 

expect a V.C. 

From this Ridge or series of Ridges, we have a 
wonderful view : a plain for miles dotted with un- 
touched villages in the distance. On my right 
and left are the batteries — one an eight-inch of 
Fritz's own guns captured complete with ammuni- 
tion dumps. These have been turned round and 
are pasting him night and day. It seems amaz- 
ing that one can sit in safety fifty yards away, 
hear his shells coming and watch them burst 
round these batteries, knowing there is no need 
to worry — it's not you he's firing at. . . . 

Did I tell you I actually found a Y.M.C.A. in 
a dugout in the very run of the advance. It's the 



174 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

limit. Of course it was in a safe place, but just 
the same, it was well up. . . . 

Do you know I wasn't half so scared, that day 
(taking the pictures), as I was the day they put 
me on building the road over which they got guns 
into and downline Ridge. That was the devil 
of a job. The road runs down the side of the 
Ridge into the town and the valley below. Fritz 
hadn't had time to destroy it ; but our own shells 
broke it up a lot while the boys advanced. Some 
three or four thousand men were put on the job of 
fixing it up — in direct view of Fritz. As they 
explained ; the "guns must be gotten there." The 
holes were filled with anything at all. Old Fritz 
had had an engineers' yard down below, and threw 
all his material into the shell holes any how. Even 
as we worked, the guns staggered through some- 
how ; the road was littered with dead men — 
dead Heinies left behind — and men killed as we 
worked. No one moved them; there was no 
time. In the side or bank of the Ridge were his 
old dugouts. Every now and then we dived for 
these ; but you couldn't remain only a moment — 
the "guns had to be gotten through." I was 
carrying a long pole with another fellow; right 
in front were four men with a big beam. A shell 
killed three of the men in front, and blew us two 
flat, pole and all. I sure thought we'd got it. We 
dived for a dugout, falling over a dead Heinie in 
the doorway — it was his late dressing station — 



IN THE TRENCHES 175 

now ours — and there was an M.O. calmly work- 
ing on wounded as if he was in his surgery at 
home. Isn't it hell that the fellows who really 
do the work won't ever get the credit. One doctor 
sits safely at the base, another works right up ; 
and no one at home knows the difference. How- 
ever, we went back at last, and believe me I was 
tickled. I spent that night in a shell hole, and 
next day we went to the rear again. 

No one knows where we are going, or any- 
thing. 

April, Morning of the 22nd, "Out." 

My dearest Kiddie : — 

As soon as ever you see this paper you'll say all 
is K.O. and not only we are out safely, but I have 
got your parcels as well. Certainly nothing could 
possibly have been more cheery and ripping al- 
together than to have got them when I did. It 
was a direct hand-clasp from you, and I needed it, 
as you will guess. I was about all in physically, 
and getting to be something of a nervous wreck, 
too. But Oh ! dearie, you cannot realize the 
wonderful change in everything now. Everyone 
positively radiates good fellowship. Already I 
have friends and am with a good clique. But 
even so, happiness — lazy, good-natured, care- 
free happiness — seems to have electrified the air. 
The sun shines. We have mail from home, hot 
tea, two blankets, newspaper — and up to last 



176 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

night we had nothing. I don't want to sound 
melodramatic, but you know death is in the air 
and all round, and though no one mentions it, 
even when some one suddenly goes West, it's with 
us alright. I know it is with me. Fritz gave us 
hell yesterday afternoon, and fairly sprayed our 
parapet and parados with shells. Our company, 
we now know, suffered most. At dusk, all were 
actively preparing for the relief, and wondering 
just whether Fritz would happen to choose the 
identical moment for a strafe. The relief was a 
trifle late, and the waiting, to us, trying. It was 
my first experience. Eventually the relieving 
platoon from the particular Battn. arrived, and 
came in the trench, and away we went across the 
dark plain in single file. — I say dark. It was 
never dark. Fritzie's flares are up, all the time. 
We got well away the first two miles, and then 
seemed to fairly walk into bursting shells. We 
made a tremendous pace, but somehow could not 
seem to get away from the screaming rush and 
Rrrr — up, as they burst around. However, 
eventually we did get away, and at dawn pulled 
into our rest camp, a new city of tents, 'way in 
advance of our last resting place. The cook 
wagons had hot tea and bacon and bread and 
"mush" and jam, and we just flopped, and ate, 
and felt good-natured. Our bunch are not in 
tents, but under spread tarpaulins. It's alright 
— everything's alright. Later, we got two 



IN THE TRENCHES 177 

blankets and Cpl. R. K. and I doubled up and 
slept. Later, I borrowed a Gillette and shaved 
and washed in a shell hole half full of water ; then 
we bought canned fruit and biscuits, and just lay 
around. Then we got mail — as I told you — 
and the world is good. Somewhere even, the 
Battn. band is playing, aeroplanes are aloft, our 
biggest heavies bark away; but Fritz doesn't 
send any over. 

There is a fly in the amber — a big 'un. We 
go back in the line as supports to the attacks — 
they say tomorrow night; and we had counted 
on six days. Let's hope supports are well back 
and won't be needed. It seems to me there must 
be a divisional rest soon. The men are not at 
their best — it's a fact. 

But of course the aspect of the war has changed 
now. It's of no use getting Heinie on the run, if 
we don't keep him there; is it? There are even 
rumors Fritz is beating it further back. 

Don't worry about me. Think, as I try so hard 
to do, "it is written." Not many get killed out- 
right, and by far the most get nice soft Blightys. 
Maybe I may be one of these. . . . 

Remember this is the only place for a Britisher 
who is fit and well. That thought should be with 
you always. 

You are always with me here, wishing me luck, 
and helping me to fight it out — 

God bless you, Lai ! 



178 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

3 p.m., 26 April, '17. 
My dearest Lallie : — 

Our rest has now come to an end and I'm writ- 
ing this while we are packing up. At six p.m. we 
beat it for the "transhays" once again. 

There is a nice little rumour going around that 
we are only going into supports and this is borne 
out by the order to take our packs with us, not 
battle order as previously, so I have sneaked a 
blanket, and folded it inside my stretcher. I 
hope that's as far as we are going. Well, I hope 
I can jump that same Fritz dugout we were in 
before. I'll make an awful bee-line for it, you 
can bet on that. 

It's very cold today, again. I wish the dickens 
we could have stayed a while longer under our 
"Bivy." Unfortunately, they didn't pay us this 
time out, so we can't tote any "eats" in with us. 
I have still some candles left, though, so we can 
warm up "mulligan", which is something. 

Personally I have an awful hunch we shall ditch 
our packs in a couple of days and go through the 
old performance again of the last trip — reserves 
— supports — and front lines. . . . 

Next Day. 

My dear, I wish I could transport you over here 
for just one hour ('tween shellings), — so you 
could see how things are, — and then again I 



IN THE TRENCHES 179 

wouldn't. The sights are interesting beyond 
anything in the world, I suppose — yet — they 
are awful, too. Last evening in very lovely 
weather, we pulled out, leaving our comfy camp 
behind. Our new place — supports, or reserves, 
I don't know which — is on the old dead line of 
only the other day. This life don't seem to allow 
one to soliloquize or see things in retrospect ; but 
every now and then there's something hits you, 
and you forget your immediate troubles and see it 
from the outsider's point of view. Today as I 
looked around, it suddenly occurred to me I stood 
on historical ground. For two and a third years, 
the lines have never moved. France lost thirty 
thousand men on this very spot. England tried 
to take it and failed. And now Canada walks 
over it and digs about in it, uses old French rifles, 
torn up out of the ground by shell fire, for its dug- 
out supports, and machine-gun shields as roofs. 
One day you must walk over the trail from Neuvelle 
St. Vaast to Vimy and remember — indeed it 
would be impossible to forget — that here Canada 
made herself ace high with France. 

The scene is the most depressingly desolate it 
would be possible to imagine. The ground has 
only a few inches of loam over the chalk. It is 
honeycombed with trenches and tunnels, and — 
this is not an exaggeration — on the front four 
miles deep, (I dunno' how long) you couldn't find 
one shell hole six feet from another. The con- 



180 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

sequence is that, in colour, it's a sort of dirty pale 
grey ; not a blade of grass or growing thing any- 
where. The ground is littered with rotting French 
packs and equipment and German ditto and the 
more recent stuff of ours. It is a graveyard. Big 
shells have uprooted parts of bodies everywhere, 
and human bones lie dirty white in the open. Old- 
fashioned munitions unexploded lie side by side 
with the new, half -buried in the drying mud ; the 
trenches are all broken in, gun emplacements — 
observing posts — sticking up in fantastic shapes, 
twisted iron — rusty barbed wire, rotting wire 
and splintered wood, add to the desolation. Tin 
cans with labels printed in French and English 
and German are everywhere; here and there a 
huge mound of white chalk in irregular shapes. 
These figured in the official communiques of over 
two years as "we exploded a mine in the Neuvelle- 
St. Vaast sector and occupied the crater." German 
and English both said this ; in both cases it was 
true, as each lip was held by one side, it being 
necessary for the holders to cover their helmets 
with wet cloth and quietly peep over the top to 
snipe each other at forty — thirty — fifty yards 
range. My friend took me over the ground today, 
and showed me the different trenches they held 
last winter. Fritz was averagely thirty yards 
away; it seemed unbelievable that it could all 
have been so. It is beyond words to describe. 
Today we walk on the top, and light fires, and live 



IN THE TRENCHES 181 

in safety; yesterday, to look over the parapet 
was instant death. Here, too, I came out of a 
cave in the very bowels of the earth, where the 
guns only sounded like very distant thunder and 
walked about in a hell of sound, watched and 
helped take pictures of the boys going over and 
taking these very trenches, and saw the big battle 
won on the memorable April 9th, 1917. 

France had big feelings about Vimy. Today 
Canada is getting the glad hand from her. I have 
heard of people, French people, stopping to shake 
hands with boys wearing the maple leaf down at 
the base — an unusual thing, as the French are 
most taciturn, not excitable as we have been led 
to believe. Not now, anyhow. 

One soon learns to be resourceful and quick up 
here. Last night we arrived, piled arms, and 
"dig yourselves in where you can, boys" in an 
hour. K. and I had selected a corner in a broken 
trench sheltered from the wind, tore sandbags 
from dismantled parapets, walled it in, put the 
stretcher and the rubber sheet over the top of the 
roof, laid another sheet on the ground inside, got 
a blanket and our coats spread out, our kits for a 
pillow, a candle (one of yours) lighted and stuck on 
a stick, pushed between two sandbags at the head 
end. Our entrenching tools transformed a gaso- 
line can into a brazier — wood is everywhere — 
quickly a good fire was blazing at the open front 
end, a mess tin of water boiled quickly and four 



182 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

cubes of your Oxo made us a good-night hot drink. 
We slept perfectly. Fritz threw over a few shells 
— apparently out of spite — but they were 
"tired" ones when they arrived, and didn't dis- 
turb us, nor the rats which were numerous. Early 
this morning, off came the temporary roof, a few 
hundred yards wide of scouting around, and we 
had a sheet of shell-torn corrugated iron, some 
broken trench mats, some netting wire for a per- 
manent roof, the wall reinforced with more sand- 
bags, another rubber sheet — no doubt belonging 
once to some casualty — for a door, and now we 
have a home to be proud of, where I am sitting 
writing to you. We put a row of sandbags on the 
top to make it solid and plugged the holes with 
mud. It isn't bomb proof; but only a direct hit 
can get us, and shelling is only most desultory, so 
we are safe as at home. Some of the boys have 
built most palatial places with lumps of chalk, 
regular huts. Fires are going everywhere; no 
one seems to give a damn about Fritz observing 
anything. In fact, all through I notice a growing 
contempt of him; it is taken for granted he is 
beaten and knows it. 

The opinion is growing everywhere that Fritz 
cannot hold out. I wish I dare believe it. The 
guns are at him all the time; sometimes for an 
hour or more they all open up together. It is 
like a million big drums in the distance, punctuated 
by the leisurely whistling — sort of sobbing — 



IN THE TRENCHES 183 

passage overhead of the very big fellows behind. 
The field guns are all away up ; nothing can live 
where our artillery is — nor our organization. 
Only a few days ago, this was No-Man's-Land ; 
across here now are a dozen roads, long never- 
ending lines of transports and pack mules — one 
road for "in", another for "out." Railway tracks 
have already been laid right up to the Ridge and 
over. One appears to have a number of gasoline 
tractors on it, small powerful engines ; another has 
big dinkies puffing away day and night. These 
lines of supplies are endless. Last night I noticed 
a pack mule train where you couldn't see the end 
nor the beginning, and it's level ground for miles. 

I have understood that in the trenches on our 
right, the Germans made nine counter attacks in 
the last two days, and not one reached our line. 
The artillery cut 'em up, and the ground in front 
is a mass of dead. 

I just decided to have a wash, so found a shell 
hole with some water in it and an old steel helmet, 
stuck it on our stove and had a beauty, with Pears 
soap and a clean white towel. 

When I had finished, I got a hurry call : 
"Stretcher-bearer!" A sergeant of our company 
had driven a pick into a buried smoke bomb, and 
it burst in his face. It was very bad — very 
bad indeed. I could only bind it with a shell 
dressing to keep the air out till he reaches the 
dressing station. It's a Blighty one alright. 



184 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

For twenty years to come, there'll be accidents 
of that kind happen all over the front line in 
France. 

There were one or two "sticky-out" things I 
intended to tell you at various times. I'll try 
to think of them now. One was : Heinie has a 
new shell. When it bursts, out pops a terrifically 
brilliant arc light which hangs in the air far too 
long. The country is made as bright as day. 
Imagine the feelings of a bunch of men working, 
or marching in the open at night, and one of those 
damn things busting near ! They flop, I guess, 
tout suite. We had one bust over us, but we were 
in the trench and so safe. It's a good one — and 
I fear, if only his observation is good, it will be a 
bother to us. Like every one else, you have heard 
of Fritz's gas shells. I was under the impression 
they were a fearsome thing. The other night, 
coming out, I noticed shells coming over and 
hitting the ground with a dull "flop." Soon I 
noticed a queer smell like — as much as any- 
thing — fresh green tree bark — laburnum trees. 
I said "What the devil's the smell?" "Gas 
shells," some one says. Try to imagine us grop- 
ing along in the dark in single file, tearing along 
all we knew, to get away from the zone of shells. 
Right and left, every minute, a big "Ker-up", as 
one bust, — each man looking only at the feet of 
the man in front, as the murmur continually 
passes down the line from man to man: "Shell 



IN THE TRENCHES 185 

hole on the left ! " — " Wire under-f oot ", — "More 
wire" and so on, the only guide you have, and me 
bringing up the rear carrying a stretcher which 
sometimes got so heavy I thought really I could 
never make it. And then the guy says, "Gas 
Shells!" 

Without stopping (I can laugh now), I lugged 
out the mask of my "gasperator" ready to put it 
on. However, I noticed the chap in front didn't 
seem to be worrying, so I let it hang. All the 
time, there was the whistle of the arriving shell, 
and the full flop of the shells in the mud and the 
smell growing stronger. 

Well, — that's all. 

They're a joke. Unless one comes and lands 
in the top pocket of your tunic, they're as effec- 
tive as lavender water or eau de cologne. 

They land in the mud and give a little kick — 
an explosion which draws out a cork or something 
— and out oozes Fritz's f rightfulness. I am 
waiting to hear of some one getting gassed by 
one. K. just came in the dugout and I thought 
I'd ask him if he'd heard of any one. He says, 
"Yes, at the Somme, when he threw some 
thousands altogether." So that's it. I guess 
he hasn't got the guns here, so his attempts 
are a joke. 

The rations here are already getting in their 
fine work — no butter — no jam — only biscuits. 
Already I'm hungry as a bear. . . . 



186 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

If you ever hit one of our camps and saw the 
fellows go for those canteens, you'd have a fit. 
Our canteen sold five thousand francs worth of 
stock in three days, and no one had been paid. 
It takes anywhere from half an hour up, to get 
into one, owing to the line-up. Money outside 
your pay seems essential ; but nearly all the boys 
seem to have some. I had ten francs this time 
out, and young F. W., who had a hundred franc 
check, gave me eight francs. Down at the base 
where grub wasn't the main thing, fifteen francs 
every two weeks was bearable ; but here — well. 
It's no fun. For instance, a can of lobsters costs 
four francs and a half; cake is sold in portions 
not less than two francs' worth ; a candle is five 
cents (Canadian) ; milk one franc and a half ; 
peaches two francs twenty centimes, and so on. 
You can see by this how far a poor little fifteen 
francs is going to go. Next time out, we'll get 
paid; and we are already talking of our spread. 
It's going to include a packet of Quaker Oats, this 
time, with canned milk. I taste it now ! Heav- 
enly ! . . . 

My last thoughts will be of you, as will be my 
waking ones. 

It is you I am living for — you I am doing this 
work for. When — if — the supreme test comes, I 
shall jump in, doing it with you by my side every 
second — remember. 



IN THE TRENCHES 187 

Next Day. 
My Very Dearest : — 

The weather is still most glorious — sun — 
spring — lovely. You remember how I told you 
what a jolly camp we had ? Well, Fritz was over 
on his plane and must have made a picture of it, 
as I am sitting on our dismantled "bivy", wait- 
ing to know where its new location has to be. 
Heinie got too enterprising and commenced 
dropping shells amongst the huts, so we must beat 
it to a new home — only a mile I guess, or so, but 
it's a beastly nuisance nevertheless. Yesterday, 
we had a parade at two p.m. The Colonel just 
looked us over a bit, said we had begun to get the 
mud off anyway, congratulated us very much 
on the recent splendid victory, etc., etc., and told 
us he hoped we should not have to go in again 
immediately. Tres bien ! 

This morning at ten we fell in for a bath parade, 
about a three-mile walk. It was lovely, the bath 
and the walk too — and we got a clean change, 
leaving our other stuff behind. Officers and men 
just dig in together; all the saucy stuff on their 
partis 1 "napoo" here. We had the pipe band to 
play us down, too. All the Battalions have their 
bands here. We have two pipe and brass. Life 
"out" is positively blissful ! 

We have moved all our things over here now, 

1 Napoo -= 77 rCy a plug. 



188 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

about a mile away. We packed our tarpaulin 
and pegs and everything over on my stretcher, 
about an hour's work — six of us — and we now 
have a ripping bivy. An old salvaged rifle holds 
up one end, pegs at the sides, ends fastened up 
with old tacks. The nights are very cold, and 
believe me we appreciate our little home. 

The boys all seem to think the war is coming 
to an early close. I wish I dare think so. A 
captured officer told us that they had tremendous 
reserves for counter attacks. The more the 
counter attacks, the better, because the artillery 
will attend to them. But the main thing I think 
is to bust Heinie's morale to such an extent that 
his men surrender easily. I see they credit us 
with thirteen thousand prisoners, and now we 
hear Lens has given the Imperials six thousand 
more. One can take these figures without fear 
of exaggeration. Surely no army can stand this 
kind of thing for long. Then the French are 
after him for fair, too. No ! I hardly think it 
can go on much longer. The points we captured 
were absolute fortresses ; yet we took them easily. 
How can they hope to resist more, without their 
extraordinary defensive apparatus, dugouts and 
so forth? No words in our vocabulary can 
describe the artillery bombardments we put up. 
It isn't like a bombardment as you would under- 
stand it; it's just a noise continuous. You've 
seen mud, when it's in a jelly, sort of boil and 



IN THE TRENCHES 189 

waggle if you poke it with a pole. Well, I've 
seen the earth sort of boil like that. Of course, 
nothing can live in it, not a mouse. Then we 
have what the boys call "flying pigs", a thing 
like a torpedo that is fired in the air. When it 
drops, its own weight makes it penetrate three 
feet in the ground — the depth of an average 
dugout. It then explodes and leaves a hole 
like a mine crater. The Germans protested to 
neutrals about this thing; but I guess were 
laughed at, as I've seen 'em going up the line 
in hundreds. The finest piece of engineering 
work I've seen was the road from here to the 
Ridge to get the supplies up. The land from 
here to there was one mass of connected shell 
holes, wire, mud, and busted trenches. The 
engineers have made a road of rough boards 
where they couldn't do it without, and the im- 
possible has been accomplished. Heinie has a 
better plane than ours. To look at, it's almost 
exactly like our new one; but for speed, he has 
it. I've seen him bring ours down in a sheet of 
flame, like a hawk on a pigeon. Just the same, 
we beat him in numbers. Often you can see twenty 
of ours up at once. He is over us repeatedly ; but 
only in ones or twos, and never for long. 

4 May, '17. 

This is being written in a funk hole up near 
the front line amongst all the villages whose 



190 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

names are now familiar to you, where Fritz 
seems to be making a stand, and a pretty good 
one, too. Yesterday afternoon, they called upon 
us for a party to take water bombs, and machine- 
gun ammunition up to the Battalion that went 
over in the morning. Of course, I went too. 
We hadn't been long on the way, before we saw 
evidence of what the morning's scrap had been 
like. 

They made their objective all right — partly. 
Bombed their way to it. Even the terrific 
bombardment hadn't broken the resistance, which 
was fierce. I cannot say any more. Looking 
from the point of view of ' Empire, advancing 
against the might of an Empire, the move was 
successful. To our little unit of an army from 
Canada — well, we paid the price, I suppose. 

Saskatchewan and Alberta did it, and there 
are three new roads on the maps of France which 
the kids will learn in their history one day : 
Alberta Road, Winnipeg Road, Manitoba Road, 
— and another less important one, Vancouver 
Road. 

Though we made our goal with the stuff with- 
out a casualty, I dunno' how it happened. Damn 
the newspaper jays who represent us as "cheerful 
and happy as schoolboys going to a game" and 
all that slush ! We can do the work — will do 
it — against any odds ; but we are not happy or 
cheerful. We are in deadly earnest. Besides, 



IN THE TRENCHES 191 

what kind of a human beast can be happy and 
gay, when seeing his fellow Canadians being 
torn to pieces, and wracked with nerves ! 

We got back again without a casualty — our 
bunch I mean. Other companies were not so 
lucky, I believe. On the final bit of open before 
reaching our trench, K., who was in charge of 
the party, and myself were bringing up the rear, 
when a big one burst between us, I was half 
buried, was sure I'd got it ; but neither of us 
had a scratch. We were greeted on our return 
with the news I half anticipated. We were to 
go back at midnight, to reinforce the other 
Batt'ns., who were going over once more to 
consolidate. Well, we made it. Only, once again 
the Sgt. and I got blown flat. He says I'm sure 
one lucky guy, and I guess I am. May it last ! 
I have a funk hole which I can just squeeze into. 
This afternoon I enlarged it a little, as two fellows 
in the next platoon, who were sitting in theirs 
with their legs stuck out on the trench bottoms, 
had their four legs taken off above the knee. One 
man was blown right on top of the parapet. We 
got 'em out; but I think there is little hope. 
Fritz is certainly pounding us, and he has the 
range to a hair. 

This is a great war, to read about; but when 
you hear of these glorious charges, and all the 
rest of the newspaper gush, remember it sounds 
alright. It no doubt is alright. We are winning, 



192 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

not a doubt of it ; but from the individual point 
of view gained on the spot, it's exactly what 
Sherman said it was. And then some. 

It's about seven now, and we shall go for the 
rations when it gets dark — ('Tis the Lord knows 
what difference it makes whether it's dark or 
light; Fritz has his ranges all set. It's pie for 
him, all on his old ground, and he throws more 
over at night than he does in the daytime.) 

The next letter will be written in happy cir- 
cumstances — and all will look rosy and happy. 

Keep cheery and bright. All is well as can be. 
Kiss little Bill for me. 

Lots of really ones for you, and all my love. 

9 May, '17. 

Dear Lai : — 

Well — we're out. I don't know how much 
you know over there about the recent fighting. 
I mean of this last week. I have a hunch, too, 
that letters from here are going to be pretty 
closely censored for a week or two, so I'll be care- 
ful, as I want you to get this. 

We arrived out yesterday at daybreak. This 
morning I had my first wash and shave, and 
though feeling horribly "dopey", I'm much better 
than I was. We've had a "strenuous" trip, very 
strenuous. Some of the old timers say it has had 
the worst of the Somme beat. All admit it was 



IN THE TRENCHES 198 

as bad. Some one is looking after me alright. 
Never a scratch. I cannot believe it, and there is 
no doubt whatever that at least on one occasion 
I was in the very hottest corner of all. It hap- 
pened K. fell sick — fortunately I carry a ther- 
mometer — his temperature was over 103, so I 
could get him out. The ass didn't want to go. 
I helped him pack up his things, and right in the 
middle Fritz opened up. I suppose it couldn't 
have been worse. Personally, I was convinced 
this was finis. K., of course, couldn't get out, 
but hunched back in his funk hole with the rest, 
and waited. I stayed in when I could ; but of 
course I was out a little "on business" up the 
trench. The air was quite black; your mouth 
was full of smoke. When it quieted down, K. got 
out. And took my letter. Next day was not 
so bad; but at dusk of course it started again. 
Our bunch were to go up on a party to dig a new 
front-line trench — our two sergeants were getting 
the turn together — when a big one fell almost on 
top of them. I think I've mentioned Mike to 
you. I doubt if we could have had a better ser- 
geant. He was a real friend to me, a stranger in 
the Company; helped me in every way. Every 
one liked Mike. It happened about twelve feet 
from me. He was walking along the trench, had 
just passed my funk hole with the other sergeant, 
when the shell came. I felt it must have got 
them. I went out. Only S. was alive; he was 



194 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

terribly hit. Another stretcher bearer and I did 
what we could. I didn't see anything of Mike. 
There wasn't enough of him, I heard afterwards, to 
see. We got S. on a stretcher, and I helped get 
him out ; but he died before we got anywhere. 

All the time, we kept hearing we were to be re- 
lieved; but always they told us "tomorrow." 
One night, I was in the front line to continue it 
another hundred yards ; that was a cinch. All 
we had to contend with were snipers. We didn't 
have a casualty. Next day, Fritz slowly moved 
up and down over it in a plane. Whenever there 
was a bunch of men hunched rather close together, 
he dropped a flare. The same second over came 
a shell, and — no trench — no men. I was in 
the trench the next night, beyond it to our other 
Company to get out wounded. All the way, we 
climbed over dead bodies. 

The salient is like a horseshoe. The heavies 
come from in front, the light from near-by be- 
hind. The trenches are not trenches, only two 
feet or so wide and about four feet deep. Fritz 
has every inch marked. These poor men — 
Why should it be them that line the trenches? 
I leave you to imagine what it's like, getting a 
wounded man out. The stretcher is wider than 
the trench. One night, we got on top to carry; 
we stayed about a minute. The first flare to 
come over, and he got after us with both whizz 
bangs and heavies. Right there is where a miracle 



IN THE TRENCHES 195 

occurred. A shell dropped amongst us, and — 
even now I don't understand it — it never went 
off. Not one shell in a thousand does that now. 
Well, we got out. Our stretcher cases were alive, 
and our "walkers" too. Going down the main 
trench, he shelled us all the way. It was the 
night of the relief, and we passed them coming up. 
Imagine that, too, if you can. The men hurry- 
ing, cursing, with sobbing breath, coming up; 
and we trying to get down with our stretchers. 
Telephone wires across the trench everywhere. 
I dunno' how it's done; but it is. When we got 
to our own part of the trench, another party took 
the cases and went on out. Our relief came about 
the same time. Our troubles weren't over yet, 
though. Fritz, of course, was wise to the relief, 
and, going out, in addition to ordinary shelling, 
put up a gas barrage (shells) away back. This we 
had to pass through. He threw a fearful lot, and 
it was pretty bad. However, we got through that, 
too. And, like a lot of drunken men, arrived at 
the point — some miles away — where our cook 
wagons were. I forgot to say it rained. Here 
we flopped in the road, and ate steaks and drank 
tea — then slept. Then came the really inter- 
esting part. We'd been asleep awhile, then were 
waked up to "stand to." Fritz had come over on 
those trenches and taken 'em. Now can you 
beat that? Personally, I couldn't either think 
or move, I was so "all in," 



196 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Those poor devils who relieved us (Easterners) 
to crawl into those new trenches over all those 
dead bodies, find their places, and in the rain and 
dark, with Fritz shelling it, and then for him to 
come over ! However, in an hour or so, we heard 
they'd gone over and retaken them. If Fritz 
couldn't hold that line, under conditions as they 
are, having the ranges and everything — couldn't 
hold it from Battalions feeling as these fellows 
must have felt ! — then indeed he is no good, 
and the war is over, as regards which are the best 
men. 

Our machine gunners were the last to leave. 
They stayed to hold the line while the new bunch 
got all fixed in their places, so they were there 
when he came over. Our platoon gunner, it is 
claimed, held up the whole entrance. He claims 
fifty Fritzies, and he's no hot-air artist. He stayed 
till his gun was knocked out. It's a medal, sure. 

The boys are not happy or jolly this trip out. 
There are rumours we must go in again before a 
rest. God knows how we'll do it. Today is the 
ninth, just a month since the advance ; and we've 
hardly been out of the line at all. There's a 
limit, and I think we've reached it. Five million 
men they say we have. Well, where in hell are 
they? Is it up to Canada to win this bloody 
war ? Nearly a month since we were paid, even. 

It's silly, I suppose, to say, "Don't worry." 

You must do as I do — hope for the best. 



IN THE TRENCHES 197 

12 May, '17. 

My dearest Lai : — 

I hadn't intended writing again till we came 
out. Rumours seem to be rather persistent that 
a little more is expected of us, in fact that there 
is to be a show, more or less big, and we must — 
I mean our outfit must — pull off the stunt. Of 
course we hope otherwise. I can't even tell you 
any of the details of what I have heard ; but 
something is going to happen, I guess, and so I 
thought I'd better write you. We move up to- 
night, without our kits or anything, into another 
of those delightful ditches misnamed trenches, 
where there's no cover and damn little protection ; 
where the whole works "stands to" all night and 
endeavours to sleep all day. We shan't have a 
kick unless we have to perform the over-the-bags 
stunt. I've seen an aeroplane picture — these 
are shown us regularly — of what's in front of 
us, and there's a row of machine gun emplace- 
ments connected up like this =0=0= running 
right across the picture. 

H'ver, long before you get this, the scrap will 
be old, old news ; and anyway, maybe they won't 
need us — this time. 

Last night quite suddenly we loosed up one of 
our wonderful bombardments. No words can 
ever describe it; the air all trembles, and there 
is no distinction whatever between the shocks, 



198 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

yet so many guns take part in these displays that 
I am told one individual gun never fires more than 
four rounds a minute, and more likely only three. 
Of course they are more than wheel to wheel; 
they are in bunches, behind and around each 
other. When this starts, Heinie always gets the 
wind up for fair, and his trenches all along send 
up every S.O.S. signal he has : green flares, red 
flares, strings of all colours and shapes, and what 
with all these and the light in the sky from the 
guns and the roar, it's a scene like nothing that 
has ever happened before. 

I have been under shell fire in the open and in 
trenches when only a few batteries were working, 
and it's rotten, to put it mildly; so we can all 
understand just what is happening when our 
guns turn on him with a regular performance. 
Frankly, I don't know what he does ; I don't see 
what he can do. In his newer trenches he cer- 
tainly can't have deep dugouts, and without these 
he's helpless. Funk holes are no good. So it's 
certain he must suffer terribly. Some day I 
expect these bombardments to break his spirit 
and cause a rout. I told you, I think, how he 
massed seven lines of men to retake Vimy Ridge and 
we caught them down in the plains below. They 
never even got within five hundred yards of it. 

Though there is little to pack up, it seems to 
keep every one busy the day before a trip in, 
getting everything shipshape. I'm going to take 



IN THE TRENCHES 199 

two water bottles ; I have a hunch there'll be 
rows this time. I have some candles left. We've 
been able to have a fire here, but of course one 
will be napoo up there. And we swiped some dry 
tea this morning. I don't think we'll be in long, 
anyway, even if we go over — 

In less than a week I'll be writing again. 

Au revoir, Lai dear. Remember I shall be 
thinking of you — you both — all the time. 

Late afternoon. 

I've had a lovely shave and wash. The towel, 
soap, powder, also the Gillette blades were an 
inspiration. After that I strolled over to the 
next trench behind us where B. is and lay in the 
sun and talked. Such are active service con- 
ditions — when the weather's fine, and Fritz is 
strafing some one else. 

Casualties occur even here. While lining up 
for breakfast, this morning, a fellow just in front 
of me picked up an old, undischarged flare light. 
It went off in his hand, taking nearly half of it off . 
Therell be bad accidents here for years ; the 
ground is a mass of unexploded bombs. 

Evening. 

Did I mention in one of my letters about send- 
ing some of that cocoa, sugar, and milk stuff? 
They put it up in small tins, quite small. Send 
two or three at a time, four or five of those plain 



900 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

bars of chocolate, one can of Oxo, same as before, 
a small towel just the same as the last, no socks — 
got plenty — a few candles, and cakes. And 
cakes. And then cakes. Early and often. 

Do you know I've come to the conclusion that 
you're a very lucky girl. I don't know any one else 
that writes letters, except when they are out. K. is 
engaged to a sweet-looking girl — at least her photo 
is sweet — yet he doesn't write as much as I do. 

15 May, '17. 
My very dearest Lai : — 

Have just come down the stairs of a Fritz dug- 
out — "safety first" — as the afternoon strafe 
has begun. We moved "up" to a delightful 
place all surrounded with guns, our guns, which 
Heinie seems to know all about, down to an inch, 
and keeps us in a perpetual state of flopping and 
"scrunching" up in funk holes, dodging shell 
slivers. Yesterday he kept it up off and on all 
the time. I had a very nice sandbag funk hole. 
It wasn't far from what was once a road. All 
afternoon he shelled where he thought batteries 
were; and as the nearest was at least fifty yards 
off, we felt fairly safe. Towards evening, I 
noticed that they seemed to be dropping closer 
to our "home." Good big rocks began to drop 
in it, and the concussion of bursts began to be 
unpleasant. I said to the fellows I was in with, 
"Here's where I beat it." And I did. They 



IN THE TRENCHES 201 

followed, as did another fellow in the next funk 
hole who had heard us talking. We just got a 
few yards, when two dropped in our late doorway. 
Can you beat it ? Is luck like this going to last ? 
Can my hunches always be relied on ? The fellow 
who had heard me talking and came, too, got hit. 
I had to put five dressings on him, all slight 
wounds. The lucky devil! Today he's laid in 
a nice white bed with a Sister handing him cool 
drinks. Why couldn't it have been me? It's 
all very well to be whole and un wounded; but 
this life is not exactly a rest cure, and anybody 
can have it for me. . . . 

W r e have the Canadian papers now, giving the 
account of the Vimy scrap — rather amusing some 
of it. One of the papers said the preliminary 
bombardment lasted ten days. As a matter of fact, 
it lasted less than an hour ; but it was the concen- 
trated kind and evidently lasted long enough. . . . 

One thing you said in your letter — that you 
supposed I would get hard and all that, through 
this thing. Well, the exact opposite is the case. 
The sight of this continual killing and wounding 
is making me madder and madder at such waste. 
I have even got where I wouldn't kill a mouse or a 
bird, if you paid me. It seems ridiculous maybe, 
but that's how it is with me at present. 
| Tonight I go on a working party, and I guess 
in a day or so we take the advance line, and in due 
course out again — the sooner the better, 



202 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

19 May, '17. 

This little bit of blossom was growing in a 
destroyed orchard, the only apple tree I saw 
alive in the village of Vimy. All the trees — 
those alive — are green now, but there are not 
many flowers. I saw a lilac bush one day. Such 
sights give you quite a shock amongst all the 
wreckage. By the way I forgot — I haven't heard 
yet if Heinie claims he has retired from here "ac- 
cording to plan" ; but if he says so, why did he — 
considering the shortage of grain in Germany and 
for obvious other reasons — why did he sow a lot 
of fields, even up to and on the Ridge, with grain ? 
It's just coming up nicely between the shell holes. 

We have moved to a different line of trenches, 
much better ones this time, where you can light 
a fire and walk around. . . . 

The weather has changed for the worse — not 
very cold, but raining and cloudy all the time. 
Your comfort seems to depend absolutely on the 
weather. Only very few of the boys pack an 
overcoat, and of course no blanket or anything. 
The other night, we were on a wiring party, laying 
barbed wire out in front. It rained all the time ; 
in an hour the water was through every one's 
clothes. It would be alright, of course, if you had 
a place to sleep dry afterwards, but you haven't ; 
you just dry out as you can. When we quit 
before dawn, we came into our funk holes and 



IN THE TRENCHES 203 

just lay as we were. How you do it, I dunno', — 
but you do and somehow no one ever seems to 
even get a cold, but it's not pleasant. In the 
sunshine, everything is lovely. 

... It is an effort to write and it should be 
a pleasure. One thing, the interest, as a spectacle, 
very soon goes out of the thing. From a looker- 
on — a man on the staff — a newspaper corre- 
spondent's view, it's all different of course. We 
who live it and cannot get away from it, see it 
with different eyes. Once I was wildly inter- 
ested in villages and woods and positions ; but I 
find all that leaving me. A trench position has 
an interest only in so far as whether it is usually 
quiet or otherwise. As we hardly ever see a 
paper, we know little as to the progress of the 
war, so we never discuss it. Of course, the every- 
day events of the life abound with incidents 
of interest, many dramatic and humorous; but 
when you come to want to write of them, a sort 
of lassitude comes over you and, fight against it 
as you will, it's no use. 

When you get orders for so many days in the 
lines, you don't go all keen and excited, you know, 
as if you were going to a party ; though I'll admit 
once I used to feel keen, keen to see it. Not 
now, though. 

Tonight we go in for six days — I mean we go 
to new positions for six days ; we've never been 
"out" yet; it seems a long time. But I hope 



£04 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

by then anyway we'll have the rest we've looked 
forward to so long. . . . 

Kiss little Bill for me — tell her that Dad looks 
forward to the good times to come. Only last 
night I was planning a swell funk hole we'll make 
in the woods, one summer ; and have a real camp 
out. 

20 May, '17. 

Last night, we got in without incident of any 
kind. It was a fine night, and we were in time to 
get a sleep. I am more than usually lucky in 
the funk hole allotted — at least by appearance. 
It's one of those trenches not connected by a 
communication trench; you must go overland. 
Mine is quite secure from shrapnel of the over- 
head variety, and safe even from shell fire of the 
other kind, provided they don't drop too near 
and cave it in. The trenches all along this new 
country are getting better and better. Each 
relief fixes them up a little bit better, until even- 
tually they get to be regular homes and safe from 
'most everything but direct hits. . . . 

Rations are now getting like they are having 
at the Somme — abundant. I imagine the same 
amounts go to a brigade or division all the time. 
When a push comes and the numbers decrease, 
there's more to eat for every one. There was a 
more pleasant surprise, this morning, when gaso- 
line cans of strong hot tea arrived — right over- 
land — also butter and bread and so forth. It's 



IN THE TRENCHES 205 

amazing what a difference lots to eat makes on 
your outlook in the line. There was mail, too. 
I got a letter from B. with some more envelopes. 
He says his commission is gone through, and asked 
me to even picture him bathing in the sea in 
Blighty. Some fellows have all the luck. I miss 
K. this trip — another lucky devil, enjoying a 
course of some sort in a town away back, though 
another fellow we know well got shot to pieces 
with nerves and is gone to Blighty for a complete 
rest. 

The chap bunking with me is an unconscious 
humorist, he just said, — " Gee, listen to those 
birds singing. I wish I was on my old chicken 
ranch, listening to them. Six days of this yet, 
and the world was made in six days !" 

Mentioning the birds, it's curious ; but you see 
'em all the time right out in No Man's Land — 
the only things besides the slackers at home that 
don't seem to realize there's a war on. 

My "roomy" is a philosopher of sorts. Lying 
on his back, smoking, he says, "Can you imagine 
anything more absurd than this : a peaceful sum- 
mer day, and millions of men lined up, just like 
this, in holes in the earth, afraid to walk out in 
the field? They call it freeing the world. The 
absurdity of it all, as if we were born for this ! " 
— and so on. 

And — isn't it just too utterly absurd? A 
few men you have never seen, at a gun eight or 



206 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

nine miles away, send over a shell trying to kill 
a few more that they don't know and haven't 
seen either — and all the world busy at it ! How 
preposterous, when we could all be enjoying life, 
and doing work, and good, around ! What thoughts 
crowd up when you let yourself think of it ! The 
Fritzies in the trench over there don't really want 
to kill us ; they want to sit quiet just like we do. 
They'd be just as sore as us, if anything started 
right now. Dozens of 'em are writing letters and 
reading just as we are. 

Yet — we are the goats. The fellows who 
really want the thing are miles and miles away 
from the shells and the hardships. They know 
they will live, whereas I don't know I'll even live 
to finish this letter. After it's over, they win 
anyway — because we have lost years or months 
of happiness, and our health in any case impaired 
for good. The old times had it all on us. Their 
kings led 'em into battle, and took a chance, too. 

Yet if I hadn't come, I'd have despised myself 
forever ! . . . 

Evening. 

I notice I am getting most awfully thin. I 
guess that must be why so many of those nice 
bits of shell splinters don't plunk me. My luck 
simply won't go that way at all. A lovely op- 
portunity occurred the other day ; only about a 
hundred yards from the dressing station, I was 
talking to the two chief stretcher bearers — 



IN THE TRENCHES 207 

everything all stage-managed to perfection. Heinie 
plugs a 4.1 over, and the two other fellows get 
the splinters. Now if I had just had a nice 
piece in the arm, had been all nicely fixed up and 
gone over to the dressing station, got the am- 
bulance there for the clearing station, then the 
train — all French hospitals busy — so bang 
straight through to Blighty, then a nice stiffness 
would develop, a few boards, the first one, saying 
"I think this man had better go back to Canada." 
How's that for a nice little program, eh ? . . . 

22 May, '17. 
My ownest Kiddie : — 

Tonight we move on to the last stage and the 
most desperate one of our adventure. 

It's raining, cloudy, wretched. Even in this 
trench where we have a roofed funk hole, it is bad. 
Up there, it will be unpleasant. It is our portion : 
days and nights spent in watching and waiting — 
the nervous strain about to the limit all the time. 
The regular trench stuff was a holiday to it. Then 
you went about your business peacefully, each 
side attending to his own affairs safely behind 
barbed wire. For diversion, both sides threw 
over a few trench mortar bombs, or made a raid, 
or something. The trenches were as near real 
protection as they could be made ; moreover, the 
enemy not having been living there recently, didn't 



208 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

know more about your line than you did. There 
were communication trenches, and bays in the 
front line to prevent enfilading, and one shell was 
confined in its activities to the particular bay it 
dropped in. 

Up here we have none of these things, no wire, 
no anything, just a narrow ditch. The material 
dug out, being mostly chalk, shows clearly like a 
dirty white snake across the countryside. 

Nothing runs to schedule. Each side period- 
ically gets "the wind up", owing to their state 
of nerves. Up go the S.O.S.'s and over comes 
the rain of steel and iron. If it's a false alarm, 
this gradually dies down like a storm, the flares 
resume their normal colour and regular frequency, 
and each side carries on — watching — waiting as 
before. Sometimes it is not a false alarm, and 
then there is "dirty work at the cross roads", 
and three lines in the newspaper the following 
day. . . . 

I shall always contend that the Canadians 
should not be sent in the same place twice. Their 
temperament is different to the English ; they 
like change. Sitting under shell fire is not good 
for any one ; but I think less good for them. In 
a war of movement and attack, they are splendid. 
Look at Vimy Ridge. Then again I may be 
wrong, because look at Ypres which has been all 
"hold." Still, a new front, if only a mile away, 
has an interest the old front has not. It is better 



IN THE TRENCHES 209 

not to know the danger, in my opinion. This is 
the last trip for a while, and a few weeks' polishing 
buttons and ceremonial parades will work wonders 
to our nerves. I guess it's all pie for us compared 
to Fritz. I don't know how he stands it at all. 
The more I hear of his last attack on us, the less 
I understand it. He came over in droves to 
occupy our trench — overland. He had no com- 
munication trench; there was nothing to gain; 
it wasn't a strong point. They must have known, 
even if they consolidated it, we should merely 
blow them out again with artillery. If the relief 
had not just been taking place, he'd never have 
reached it ; as it was, he only held it an hour or 
two. Going and coming he must have lost a 
great many men — for what ? Of course, it may 
all have been part of a big plan of which I know 
nothing; but, on the face of it, it looks just like 
a useless killing for nothing. I am convinced 
now that he comes over, doped. Every one seems 
to agree on that. I guess he needs it. 

Well, I didn't intend to write about the war — 
just a note merely — to say au revoir. 

I know you would wish me a good trip — and a 
safe return. If you get another letter it will be 
from more cheerful surroundings. 

.... Good-by, dearie — I'll be holding your 
hand. 



210 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

28 May, '17. 
My dearest Lai : — 

.... The last letter I wrote was on the eve 
of going in ; not in from away back, but in from 
another line of trenches. It was the advance 
point of the extremest advance point of the whole 
works, as it figures on the map of things at this 
time on our front — which I guess is the most 
advanced point that the British hold on the North 
Sea — And — well — here I am ! That's the 
main thing. We are out and out for a rest. 
This is only our temporary camp. We are 
through — oh — ye — Gods ! Through ! Think 
of it ! For — maybe — even four weeks. I could 
cheer on paper if it were possible. We are going 
back — back away from it all — back away from 
shells — and Heinie and all his works, and just 
get our nerves back. Since April 8th, I have not 
been really away from things ; no one who does 
not understand can realize what it means. . . . 

1 June, '17. 
My very dearest Lai : — 

I have only written one letter to you since we 
came out for our long rest. v The joke is, there has 
been less spare time so far during our "rest" than 
there is in the front line. The first few days 
were taken up with our long "polish brass work", 



IN THE TRENCHES 211 

and rehearsing for the big brass hats' inspection. 
Finally the great moment arrived, and passed, 
just like any other inspection in Canada or Eng- 
land ; though two months ago it was impossible 
to travel over the scene of it otherwise than down 
the connecting trenches, and, as it was, Heinie's 
planes were up most days. There was one big 
difference between the inspection and a similar 
one at home. There, every one would be grouch- 
ing and kicking and cussing the whole apparently 
useless business. Here, no one ever let out a 
peep, not us. You bet we know when we are 
well off, and not a man who would not be tickled 
to death to go through all the harassing and 
irritations every day, for "the duration." No. 
Anything away from those shells, anything, has 
that beat. 

I wish intensely — I could make you grasp the 
gigantic difference between "in" and "out", be- 
tween a job behind the lines and one in them. 
There can be no state of life in the world where 
such differences exist, away from the war zone. 
This morning we started in our big hike to our 
resting village, bands playing, everybody happy, 
perfect weather. Today I have seen cows and 
chickens, women and children and little gardens 
for the first time since going up. This is a very 
lovely part of France (behind the lines). All the 
trees are in full leaf; May trees scent the air; 
old men are training the green peas up sticks in 



212 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

their little gardens, and tonight an old hen walked 
past me with a brood of chickens. All the men 
we meet — soldiers I mean — have the natural 
bearing and expression that we once had before 
we saw the line. You can never mistake a man 
who has been "in", no matter how smartly you 
dress him and polish him. Put him amongst a 
thousand who work behind, and you'll pick him 
out instantly. I have tried to define just where 
this difference is, many times, but I cannot. 
It's not in his face; our boys look the happi- 
est in France. Is it in the bearing, the eyes 
— what ? 

We are making the journey by easy stages. 
Our billet for the night is an old French farm- 
house, built in a kind of square, the house, such 
as it is, with the doors built in halves like I re- 
member our cowshed was at home. The other 
three sides by stables and barns, the whole of the 
centre of square being a large and very odoriferous 
manure heap. This reaches right up to the front 
door of the house ; they don't seem to mind. On 
a board outside is painted 90 hommes — 1 bed. 
This doesn't mean ninety men sleep in one bed ; 
the bed is for one officer. Our places are in the 
various "offices" in the farm. The old man 
made a great to-do about opening the door of his 
wagon shed which he had locked. No one could 
speak French; half a dozen officers had a try at 
him without result. Only more gesticulations. 



IN THE TRENCHES 21S 

Luckily a French Canadian passed and was com- 
mandeered, explanations were forthcoming, the 
door was unlocked, and the wagons pushed on to 
the manure heap and the men crowded in. The 
weather being so lovely, most of the boys are 
finding places outside for themselves ; though 
we are travelling without a blanket — we are 
hardened. I have found an old buggy hood and 
a fairly sweet smelling horse rug. This I have 
fixed under a hawthorne tree in full bloom, and 
am comfy and contented. 

The little village has been taken complete pos- 
session of by the men. The village green by the 
old mill is covered with the boys talking and 
sleeping and contentedly doing nothing. Every 
tree shades a bunch, the cook houses — or "mulli- 
gan guns" as they are called — have fired their 
rounds of stew and tea. Those millionaires with 
money from home have bought eggs and fried 
them, and all is peaceful and happy. The guns 
are already too far off to hear, and any man re- 
ferring to the war in any form would be thrown 
down the well. The French women remind us 
sometimes, when they say, "are we from Vimy." 
The answer, "Oui, Madame" always brings a 
rather awed and satisfied "A — h." We had for- 
gotten we took the famous Ridge, — and there- 
fore "some" boys ! 

There is a fly in the ointment : no mail, and no 
money. Canadian mail seems to have stopped 



214 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

altogether, and money : Oh, if only we had some 
now, when we really need it ! 

And now I will turn into my "Bivvy." To- 
morrow we pass on through the long lines of 
poplars to the next village, out, still further out. 
Thank God ! 

Next Day. 

Well, we have arrived at our village and got 
all fixed up. There are four of us in our billet, 
an outhouse at the back of a cottage, with the 
chickens and rabbits for neighbours. Everything 
is "merry and bright"; all we need now is pay, 
and some mail, and I guess we'll get both. I only 
hope you have sent a parcel or two along, and 
written pretty regularly. 

I think all we have to do is physical training, 
and there'll be games and sports in plenty; that 
is, unless there's to be another big stunt pulled 
off, when we shall be very fully occupied indeed 
going "over the tapes" — i.e. taking an objective 
arranged from aeroplane photographs. Before 
the last scrap, the ground was even exactly re- 
produced in a huge plaster of paris cast, every 
stone and rut reproduced to an inch, all from 
plane pictures. This thing is now an exact 
science. 

I saw a great air fight, this last trip in, so close 
that the bullets from their machine guns plopped 
into the ground all around us, when their noses 



IN THE TRENCHES 215 

dived our way. The proper thing to do was to 
get into the funk hole — but I couldn't have done 
it on a bet. I was too interested, and stood glued 
up against the parapet. No one was brought 
down, which was a good thing for us, as they'd 
have come right on top of us. I guess there 
cannot be a more exciting thing to watch ; the 
curves and loop the loops they made — there 
were eight of them, four German, four English — 
were positively the last thing in thrills. The 
whirr of the engines, the rattle of the machine 
guns, and the excitement in wondering when one 
is going to pot the other, and all, is just the limit. 
They were quite low, too low for us in fact. The 
fight took place over our lines, an unusual thing, 
and it wouldn't have happened, only our machines 
were not the latest type, and Fritz took a chance. 
After about three minutes of furious wheeling up, 
down and around, the four Germans headed for 
home. The air situation is entirely in our hands. 
We have a wonder of a machine, a thing that 
streaks across the sky just like a hawk. It's a 
peach, can make one hundred and eighty miles 
an hour, built in three decks. We are numer- 
ically superior, much so ; we patrol the sky per- 
petually in formations, the fast-flying machines 
circling above them. In the earliest dawn or 
latest evening you see them, and at night you hear 
them ; they are never out of the sky at any time. 
Fritz seizes his opportunity quick, and he has a 



216 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

very good machine, rushes in between patrols and 
rushes back. He has only to fly fifty-six hours 
to get an iron cross — (official) . He patrols our 
front line a lot, which is nerve racking to the boys 
in, but always runs away as our machines ap- 
proach. Making a quick, or even slow, trip over 
a strip of front line trench is easy, of course ; the 
hard part of it is to leisurely circle around and 
round for hours at a time back of the enemy's 
lines. This he never does ; he cannot. And we 
do, all the time. That's how far the superiority 
goes, which is being so much discussed — the 
reason of our heavy casualties is that we have ten 
machines up to his one and we are always out, 
where he only rushes in and out a few minutes at 
a time. Just the same, it must not be forgotten 
he has a very good machine and some good men, 
and often gets in some very good work. I am 
inclined to think he is handicapped for machines. 

Our new O.C. was a private and wears the 
D.C.M. won while in that trying capacity. He's 
a splendid man, easily the best O.C. in the Battn. 
and an officer has to be some good fellow to get 
the confidence and liking of his men in the line. 

Usually after about the second day we are out, 
they discover they are "officers" and act accord- 
ingly. In the front line, they share their cigarettes 
and water and your funk hole with you, and talk, 
and ask questions from the sergeant about what 
they are to do. About the most insignificant thing 



IN THE TRENCHES 217 

in a front line is a platoon officer, while he's there ; 
when he's out, he's a tin god again. 

When they went over the top in the big show, 
our officer — not the one we have now — started 
to give orders. The sergeant says, — "Hey." 
Puts up his hand. "Pm running this show." 
And he did. 

I've seen a newspaper most every day for a 
while. I dunno' how things look to you; but 
I'm not awfully impressed. I think they're just 
filling us up with hot air about Russia. In my 
opinion she's a thing of the past, as regards a 
factor of this war. The States seem to be back- 
ing up fairly, and are going to be a most valuable 
ally — much more so than I first thought. I bet 
they are going to do something anyway worth 
while. One thing that seems plainly obvious to 
one is that there's another winter's war ahead of 
us, and all of next year most likely as well. The 
handwriting on the wall is plain enough to see. 

I think of you hundreds of times a day, and long 
to be able to plan. But — ! 

Tell Billie I am thinking of her, and loving her, 
too. Kiss her for me. 

And to my dearie — just all my heart. 

9 June, '17. 
My dearest Lai : 

Well, the leave is a thing of the past. Nothing 
to look forward to but the end of the war, I guess. 



218 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

When I got back, last night, the Battn. was in the 
same place; and I was more than glad, believe 
me, as to have gone direct into the line would 
have surely been the limit of contrasts. Even 
in the short time I've been away, I seem to have 
lost touch with it all. A dozen times I started a 
letter in London, but never finished it ; it was all 
so different, all of it, that I could never concen- 
trate. I stayed at the Club all the time, the one 
in Charles St., Lady Drummond's house, and had 
for a companion most of the time an officer in the 
Flying Corps. We met in the Club ; he had 
once been a private in a Canadian Battn. and was 
waiting for a transfer to the American Flying 
Corps. He certainly was a nice boy, in a "nice" 
way, as also was my other companion, a ser- 
geant I met in the winter. He was over in London 
for a commission — and we all went everywhere 
together. I guess we saw everything worth see- 
ing. We saw a show of some sort every day. 
And I have never seen such turns — never. Of 
course I was prepared to like everything, but I'm 
sure I never saw better; the music, everything, 
the dresses, the lightness, and brightness of it all. 
I couldn't get it. After this. It came as a shock 
that our life together ought to include this. I 
was homesick as the very devil ; often I wished I 
had never come — I wanted you. 

Not once, but a thousand times, I tried to grasp 
the fact that so few miles away a hell was raging 



IN THE TRENCHES 219 

— and couldn't. No wonder these people don't 
understand. How could they? Lovely silk 
clothes and flowers and fruit and happiness don't 
"jibe" with "the line." 

And the life of the town, at least on the surface, 
is just the same. One seems to half expect them 
to go about in black, be mournful, and serious, 
and grim, yet I suppose theirs is the better way. 
It makes you feel mad though, too, sometimes, to 
see so much happiness and flippancy. It did me, 
anyway; yet I would hate you to be unhappy 
just because I am here. Never have I seen so 
much gayety and richness of apparel, and spend- 
ing of money in London before. The shops are 
full of the most expensive things ; flowers and 
expensive fruit, and "eats" of the most elaborate 
seemed to me more common by far than before. 
And the prices — Good Heavens — I wouldn't 
have believed it. I can't think where the money 
can all come from. 

When I was over in Blighty, I went to see a 
boy's mother for him. She made me stay all 
night and was so hospitable it was painful. Re- 
member, I had not spoken to an educated white 
woman since October last ; and then suddenly to 
be transported into the midst of a "nice" family 

— the experience was overwhelming. Such things 
would be alright and natural, if you hadn't all 
the time hid in the back of your mind that in a 
few days you would be "out there" again. And 



220 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

all at once I used to think of you, and what we 
might do, if only I was back — and then again, 
I would wish I hadn't come. No! "Leave" is 
not all it is said to mean. The old lady was very 
worried. She was the first woman I have been 
in touch with, who was afraid for some one loved 
out here, and I can see it is no cinch sitting at 
home. I think it brought you and me a little 
closer. I could see your view. ... If they 
would conscript wealth, property, as well as men, 
we wouldn't need the men, The war would stop, 
tout suit. 

24 June, '17. 
My ownest Lai, — 

I seem just now to have so much to tell you 
that I don't know where to begin. As you 
know, we are on rest, and altogether having a 
ripping time — only a little drill or lectures on 
specialty stuff in the mornings, the rest of the 
day off. There is a lake close at hand, though 
not a lake similar to yours. I mean there are 
no trimmings, no boats or anything; it's just a 
small French village in the mining district, but 
all the surrounding country is glorious, never- 
theless, and there are no stray shells — most 
important feature of all. All the boys are en- 
joying things finely. . . . 

Everything just now is devoted to sports — 



IN THE TRENCHES %%\ 

Inter- Battn., Inter-Brigade, Inter-Division. The 
finals were all in our grand sports day yesterday. 
Of course, every one is a most enthusiastic booster 
for his Battn., and it's all been most exciting. 

It took place at this very village where I've 
been all winter. When I got there, the village 
was a mass of men all on holiday ; every Battn. 
came to cheer its men in one event or another; 
but ours mainly to get that ball game. It was 
great, just like a big Sports at home, only there 
were no girls or women ; the field was surrounded 
with trees, an ideal place. All the big brass hats 
and every one was there, and out for a good 
time, and I sure did enjoy it. The (page cut by 
censor) know how to stage-manage a thing of 
this sort, and they went the whole hog, even to 
having the theatrical bunch dress as girls and 
stroll around with sunshades. Well, we won the 
ball game. We didn't do much in the running 
races ; our Battn. doesn't run, we stand fast ! ! ! 
But we won the heavyweight boxing, and the 
tug of war. 

All the time I was running into fellows I knew. 
It was a thoroughly jolly enjoyable day. I 
wished a hundred times you had been with me. 
I guess there will be a day or two like that, 
though when the big bunch go back to Canada; 
and then we'll see it all, together — because 
I'm coming home alright. I'm getting some of 
your optimism. 



222 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Later. 

Poor old Lai ! I haven't finished laughing yet 
at your idea of a good war story. . . . But for 
your information, as it directly concerns my own 
job, stretcher bearers don't carry morphine ; they 
carry — I carry — bandages, dressings (shell and 
field), iodine which I slash liberally on every 
wound, a pair of scissors, and sometimes a little 
sal volatile. That's all. . . . Imagine, before 
going over the bags, sitting in a dugout writing 
a lot of trash, and licking up the envelope. Pre- 
cious lot of dugouts a private is ever allowed in ! 
Moreover, you don't take biscuit boxes in the 
line; they go up in sandbags. And taking a 
blanket over the top is too funny. If you want 
to read front-line stuff, read Ian Hay who has 
been there — or, for a change, the personal ex- 
periences of Mrs. R. A. L.'s husband. By the 
way, I see you like my descriptions. I'm glad; 
that's why I write 'em; and if you didn't, it 
wouldn't be any fun. (Will you keep them for 
Bill when she grows up ?) I'm just beginning to 
get used to things here again; the awful con- 
trasts of home life and this are beginning to 
fade from my mind. Luckily, I didn't have to 
make the jump from England right into the line, 
but shall reach there by easy stages, so to speak. 
It isn't really bad here at all; in fact, it's just 
heaven after the line. But compared with life 



IN THE TRENCHES 223 

amongst equals and with freedom — of course 
it's awful. 

I know the present is rotten for you, dear, in 
every way; but we must "carry on." It's all 
we can do. So I'll be where I won't have time 
to think of anything but life and death, eating 
and drinking to live, and being dry and warm 

— just an animal — a hunted animal. We all 
have our worries. Remember only to be alive 
is something to thank God for. 

The photographs of you are simply splendid. 
I fell in love with you all over again. You are 
the "Ideal", the only one, and will be till I die 

— and I hope afterwards. Remember hard — 
always — that, if I should happen to have to 
pay the sacrifice, my last thought will, my very 
last one will, be loving you and hoping that the 
rest of your life is to be happy. Don't take this 
in a morbid spirit. I don't mean it that way at 
all. Already I have experienced moments which 
I was sure were "the" one. It wasn't, as it 
happened, but I was thinking of you hard. And 
I repeat my love will go out to you then, as it 
does now when I am alive and gloriously well. 

It is because I love you so, and want our home 
so much, that I want to get through with this 
thing so badly. 

You are worried about the political point of 
things, the "human" view, the reasons. I am 
concerned alone as to whether we can manage 



224 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

to pull through, while doing the day's work. I 
have done my "day's work" here satisfactorily; 
I know that. I have heard from several sources 
that I have "made good." It is enough. All 
we want now is for it to end — and begin our 
lives again ; isn't it ? 

25 June, '17. 

. . . We are trying to take the Americans 
seriously. I see their war loan was over-sub- 
scribed. Moreover, many things we read show 
they mean business. I see we are not to have 
them on our front. We had heard that they 
would work with the Canucks ; however, I guess 
the French need them most. If only they could 
get here this year ! But I guess it's impossible. 
I hope they can get that big bunch of planes 
over that they talk of ; they would be invaluable. 
Isn't it amazing Fritz doesn't see, and realize? 
I can't make it out at all. 

I bet the Yanks show the English and Canadians 
how to handle the social end of things for their 
men. They'll make mistakes, of course; but 
you can't beat 'em at anything I've seen yet, 
when they go in for it thoroughly, and now it's 
apparent they mean this, mean to go the whole 
hog, good luck to 'em ! I suppose internal 
affairs must be the very devil for those in au- 
thority to handle. There again they'll win out. 
They have a rough and ready way of dealing 



IN THE TRENCHES 225 

with trouble which is barbaric, maybe, but 
effective; and you can't go to war with kid 
gloves on. 

I was in Blighty when the big scrap came off 
that straightened the Salient ; some show I guess 
it must have been, too. Of course, I knew before- 
hand all about it, so it wasn't a surprise. I'd 
like to see the crater. Poor old Heinie ! And 
the worst is yet to come. His line must break 
soon, I firmly believe; though that there will 
be a rout or general clean-up I very much doubt. 
It's the time it takes to bring guns up that holds 
advance back. The difficulty is to keep the in- 
fantry from advancing too far. 

29 June, '17. 

My dearest Lai : — 

Well, the inspection came off as appointed. 
We were lucky in having it come early. Every 
one had prayed earnestly for rain ; but apparently 
in vain, as the weather was lovely. I can forgive 
our Colonel for getting so particular and anxious 
beforehand ; he evidently knew his man. I sup- 
pose the proper word to describe it would be 
thorough. We had other names for it, though. 
He examined odd links on the chains of the 
transport harness; dived underneath one of the 
water carts to fetch out a rifle in a case, a rifle 
which is never used (he found it clean) ; swooped 
on an odd man here and there and gave his rifle 



226 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

the going over as if he was buying a priceless 
diamond, strolled innocently past a platoon and 
gave the order "Gas!" (which means they had 
to get their helmets out and on in a given number 
of seconds). Oh! he was thorough, alright. 

When it was our turn, he wanted to know how 
many casualties we'd had among our number in 
the big show on the 9th April ; said the number 
was too many; wanted to know just what was 
in our medical bags, and many other things. 
Finally, to every one's utter relief, he beat it, 
to inflict himself on another Batt'n in the Bgd. 
We hear he was pleased. So were we — when 
he went. And, just to spite him, we haven't 
polished a button for a whole twenty-four hours. 
He knew his job, though; you must hand him 
that. 

Ever since, it's rained like the devil. Last 
night, I was thinking how impossible it is for an 
outsider to realize the meaning of life as it really 
is in the line. Those new trenches must be full 
of water, the life must be horrible in the extreme ; 
yet we, who are just now under a roof, hardly 
think of it. Only a few — a very few — days 
separate us from it; yet you never hear a word 
mentioned on the subject. If we who know 
don't bother to think, how can you expect people 
at home to realize, who have never seen or ever 
suffered like discomforts? It's a thought worth 
pondering over. 



IN THE TRENCHES 227 

Sunday morning early, 1 July, '17. 
My ownest Kiddie, — 

Tomorrow we parti for the trenches once more, 
and today we shall be decidedly busy. It's 
Sunday, and we have an important Church 
Parade — a Brigade parade — and who do you 
think is to be there? The "Dook." Quite like 
old Canadian times again. I didn't know he was 
in France. Packing up will not take long; but, 
just the same, it is always a rush. There is none 
of that ceremonial regimental stuff about it; 
you pack it how you like, ease and convenience 
alone count. . . . 

The weather is rather cold and wet, and we'll 
miss the roof overhead pretty badly, I guess. 
Fortunately I didn't ditch my sweater during the 
hot weather, as every one else did. 

You will bear the date in mind, and remember 
the news of this time when you get this. Things 
are stirring in our section with a vengeance; 
the guns are going incessantly. ... It is just 
possible we shall be left more or less alone in 
the front line, Heinie being more concerned about 
the guns hindering his retreat. 

I wonder how they are going to explain the 
loss to the rank and file in Germany. Human 
nature is pretty much the same all over, and it 
is — must be, in fact — that the soldier cannot 
feel cheerful about these continual retreats, even 



228 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

if he implicitly believes that they are "according 
to plan." I know how we should feel, and it 
would not be good, and it would not help us to 
"carry on." I have been in this sector since 
the beginning of April, and I know that we — 
the guns and ourselves — have made it absolutely 
impossible for human beings to stay where they 
were. The true facts of the evacuation — what- 
ever will be said (I am writing before the fall) 
— are that the enemy has been and is outclassed 
in every branch of war. In plain words, he is 
retreating because he has to. It is slow work, 
must of necessity be; but humans cannot stand 
this kind of thing for ever, and I look for a break, 
a bad break, somewhere in the line before October. 
If the Germans haven't realized by then how 
foolishly they are trusting in a broken reed, then 
we must sit down and endure another winter. 
The thing that never fails to be amazing to me 
is that the German people cannot see things as 
they are. However, I'm not very interested in 
the larger aspect of the war. To me, it amounts 
to whether I have enough dry pairs of socks for 
the wet trenches I shall so soon be in ; if he will 
shell us heavily ; if we shall be within his trench 
mortar zone (very important this — his "sausage" 
is a fearful thing) ; how far the front line is from 
the jumping-off place where you store your 
packs ; will it be possible to get bread and fresh 
meat in to us? How far will we have to go for 



IN THE TRENCHES 229 

water, how many days will constitute a trip 
"in", and — never expressed, but half thought 
of in the back of the brain — will this be my 
Waterloo trip? What the politicians are doing, 
and the General Staff planning don't interest us 
for a second. 

Afternoon, 1 July, '17. 

The parade this morning was quite a surprise 
to me. Apparently it's Dominion Day — no one 
knew — and when the Batt'ns of the Brigade 
had formed a square in a pretty field surrounded 
with trees, motor cars came up and discharged 
about all the brass hats in France, including the 
Commander of the First British Army himself 
(the Canadians are attached to the First Army). 
Note that ours of all the Canadians in France, 
was the Bgd. chosen for him to attend. We even 
had special "programmes" printed, one of which 
I enclose as another souvenir. Photographs and 
moving pictures were taken, and our fastest and 
latest type aeroplanes made rings round the 
affair in formation, in case Fritz should happen 
to take a look over. The band supplied the 
music. We like our own band; but it doesn't 
compare with theirs. 

It was impressive and interesting. The "Big 
Gun" made a speech in which he said the Vimy 
Show and later the (censored) one had plainly 
shown us that Fritz was getting less inclined 



230 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

to put up a stiff fight when we meant real 
business — he didn't tell us when the war was 
to end. 

During the "rest", the specialty training — 
bombers, machine gunners, rifles, grenade men, 
etc. have worked on a competition basis for 
prizes — and after the parade the Colonel pre- 
sented the prizes. There were eight prizes for 
the Batt'n, and notice this — "B" Co. took five 
of them. . . . 

All the games and sports stuff and putting 
everything on a competition line is good in every 
way, makes the fellows keen, sets up friendly 
rivalry, and is interesting for every one. The 
rest has undoubtedly been a great success. The 
only kick the fellows have is that there were 
only two pays of fifteen francs each. I think 
that rotten myself ; they could easily have slipped 
in one more, or even two. 

Later. 

They have recently got more particular about 
wearing your identification discs in the proper 
place, namely round your neck. You have two 
out here, a red, and a green. One is buried 
with you, the other — I dunno' what becomes 
of it. I've always carried mine in my pocket 
— though I wear a little medal affair on a chain 
round my wrist. At present, I am using a piece 
of old string off a parcel for the two round my 



IN THE TRENCHES 231 

neck; but if you like to send me a nice piece 
of silk cord, strong enough not to break, and 
durable enough not to object to soap and water, 
yet pretty enough to remind me of things "nice", 
I'd be tickled to wear it. 

They have this moment come for our one 
blanket — sure sign of a move. A cold night 
on hard bricks tonight ; better than mud, though. 

I have really got hold of a Saturdaij Post with 
a yarn by Gardner in it. Reading matter has 
been terribly scarce here all the time, and to 
have a Post is to be in real luck — though some- 
how looking at the ads and things always makes 
me homesick. . . . It's all so different, like going 
on leave ; the fact that people have comforts and 
luxuries, can he free, hits you like the concussion j 
of a shell. I don't suppose you'll understand this ; 
but at times, when things are quiet, like just before 
going to sleep or dozing the day through in a funk 
hole, my mind automatically flies to you, and 
times we have had together, and what might be — 
if. Always — no matter if it occurs a hundred 
times — I hastily push the thoughts away from me, 
feverishly think of something else; but it never 
really goes. It always stays sort of behind in my 
brain, and worries me and keeps me awake. The 
fact is, I think of you as little as I can. I dare 
not give myself the luxury of it; things that I 
see and do, I immediately arrange to tell you of 
in the only way I can — like this. 



232 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

"Somewhere else", 3 July, '17. 

How I am to get this mailed, I dunno' ; but 
mailed it is going to be. Yesterday we moved 
as arranged, and after a somewhat hard march. 
It would have been easy, had we not run into a 
road closed for troops "owing to being under 
enemy observation" and had to go some miles 
round. There are crops back there, every last 
inch square growing something, and it is not 
permitted to go shell-torn in the usual way. In 
the centre is the remains of a huge chateau, one 
of the biggest I've seen. A whole Batt'n can 
— does — billet in the stables and grooms' quar- 
ters. . . . 

Last night, I talked to a fellow who had been 
up there. This fellow said we were all in holes, 
not connected at all, in the suburbs of the "big 
burg" ; that it was impossible to keep men there 
more than twenty-four hours, as they couldn't 
get supplies in to 'em. That all was going well, 
we were advancing ; but it was hand to hand 
stuff, and bucking machine guns, and Heinie was 
standing good. 

How the devil am I going to get my wounded 
out? . . . 

Well, tonight we'll hear again the sound which 
no one has ever described correctly, but which 
reminds me of a train coming towards you, as 
much as anything; and then, as we advance 



IN THE TRENCHES 238 

closer up, a thousand woodpeckers will seem to 
be digging steel beaks into iron. Both are bad, 
but I think I prefer the machine guns ; they 
give you such nice aseptic "Blightys." 

I have no "hunches" again this trip. Young 
F. says he thinks a man who is going to be killed 
gets a hunch. I dunno'. We shall see. 

I am better equipped, this trip, with bandages 
and supplies than I have ever been, and I am 
glad, as I think I shall need 'em. Also I am 
comforted to know I have young F. as my "under- 
study." The rest is, as you've said once, "on 
the knees of the gods." . . . 

Well — dearest — au revoir. It isn't good bye, 
even for more than a day. I'll write something 
up there, they can't do much scrapping in the 
daytime, I expect. 

Keep as cheery these next months as you know 
how — and you do know how if you try. . . . 

Kiss Billie — for me — many times. 

8 July, '17. 

My Dearest Lai : — 

I have just been lying here soliloquizing on 
the curious ways some things work out in life, 
and how the devil it can be possible that all is 
working out for the best in this big world-clean- 
ing. In my platoon is a human soul sent up 
from the Two Hundred and Umpty something 



284 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Batt'n, who is just — nothing. No brains, no 
evil, no physique, no anything — just half born. 
Of course, nevertheless in a trench, worse — a 
danger to others. In a recent lecture in which 
the lecturer referred to the enemy always as the 
Boshe, he asked what a Boshe was ! A job is 
open for a man to look after a graveyard behind 
the lines. He is given it, a heaven-sent chance 
to strike him off the strength of the Batt'n. 
Moreover, you can't quarrel with the action. 
It is obviously correct. Yet — and yet — think ! 
To be a degenerate is lucky. He will see his 
home in Vancouver; he will go home to all that 
home means, and no doubt talk largely of his 
experience — he made one trip "in"; and the 
man who is scrupulous to do his bit conscientiously, 
is physically fit, in other words a good man and a 
good citizen, he is the one chosen for the hardest 
part, his the life needed to pay. It won't bear 
thinking about. 

Think, all my life I have taken, always taken ; 
never given. And now I must give, give all, all 
the time ; and there is no quitting. It is a joke, 
drat it, and a good one. 

... I have read all the best descriptive writers 
on the front-line stuff; but not one of 'em has 
ever given a description of trench life as it is. 
They confine themselves to the spectacular deeds : 
the attacks over the top ; and weird stunts where 
men win medals. That isn't this war at all ; 



IN THE TRENCHES 235 

those things are all easy, as men do them when 
keyed up to the proper pitch. All those things 
are great events in the history of a Batt'n. For 
instance, my Batt'n only went over at the 
Somme, and has only pulled one stunt since : 
namely, at Vimy on April 9th. Yet when you 
hear the boys talking together of the bad times, 
those things are not mentioned ; because they 
were not the bad times. They were easy. 

The newspapers ring with the wonder of the 
Vimy achievement, yet I haven't heard one say 
a word about our trip in May, when we held 
the line just by sitting, day after day and night 
after night, getting killed without firing a shot 
— just holding on. It wasn't spectacular ; yet 
that was typical of the whole war. That's what 
it is; the other things are episodes, rare ones, 
and the correspondents make the people imagine 
that is what makes their boys' lives at the front. 

I remember on the day and the subsequent 
days that we were taking Vimy and the plain 
beyond, watching the ammunition and water 
going up to the boys as they advanced. Pre- 
viously, vast stores of trench-mortar and machine- 
gun ammunition had been stored, together with 
water in gasoline cans, in a cave only a few yards 
from what was then Fritz's front line. Fritz 
was quite wise to this cave, and guessed the use 
to which it was being put, so a battery of heavies 
was put on to shell round the entrance, day and 



236 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

night. The supplies were brought up and dumped 
in a heap near the mouth, and men with mules 
loaded and took them away, marching along 
right into the barrage which kept going per- 
petually further up, with the idea of stopping 
just this very thing. 

The weather was awful ; the ground was 
covered with snow; all around the mouth of 
the cave lay dead men, and more along by the 
dump, there being no time to move them. The 
string of mules would come up, one man to one 
mule, load up hurriedly at the dump, and file 
away into the row of black spouting craters 
which was the 5.9 barrage put up by Fritz. 
In time, they would come back through the 
barrage again for another load. The officer 
would count them, and say nothing, and every 
now and then go into the cave and telephone 
for new mules and new men. 

This went on night and day — more in the 
night — for three days without ceasing. I know, 
because I carried the stuff from the cave to the 
dump, and every trip across that open strip of 
ground was an adventure. 

Yesterday, I was reading an account of 
Vimy in Canada. He described it more or less 
accurately, missing, of course, the heart of the 
thing, the little things, as they all do. One 
passage he wrote from the Ridge, looking at the 
plain below, and casually mentioned "I saw a 



IN THE TRENCHES 237 

pretty bit of shelling" (by Fritz) "on a railway 
culvert." Yes, very pretty. There is a railroad 
embankment there which once hid his big how- 
itzers. Now, however, instead of strengthening 
it, he spends many shells trying to break it up. 
And there is a culvert which received some 
"pretty shelling" twice. On two separate trips 
in, I have occupied the funk hole nearest to that 
culvert, once on one side and once on the other. 
I have seen seven men knocked out with one 
shell there — truly "pretty shelling." I have 
spent in all eight days and eight nights by that 
culvert, and run under it countless times. Not 
until some one can write and tell people what it 
means ; to sit or crouch — or squirm — around 
in one place for days, under continuous fire, with- 
out being able to go away, will you people at 
home know the war as it is. But — maybe it's 
as well they don't know. . . . Sometimes the 
correspondents are really amusing, — as when 
they have us "laughing like schoolboys, before 
going on a raid", and things like that. I may 
be wrong; but I don't think any one has ever 
seen one of the paper men in the actual front 
line. And I have yet to see any man laugh, 
while there. The atmosphere is tense with 
something quite different; a raid or patrol is 
gone on with the seriousness which facing a quick 
death entitles it to. Men don't laugh in the 
front line, ever. They "grouch" — a lot — about 



238 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

the food, the shortage of water, the weather, the 
insects, and many things besides. They kick 
like hell when our guns open up from behind on 
Fritz's line. Yes, I mean that. I guess you'll 
wonder why that makes us sore but it does — 
damnably. Because — Fritz will retaliate. He 
may suspect a raid. If so, up goes his S.O.S. 
amongst all the other flares, and down comes a 
barrage of heavies. Ours increase, the air throb- 
bing and alive with the screams and hisses of 
different calibre shells, punctuated with the 
harsh tapping of hundreds of machine guns 
sweeping the open. It dies down a little, then 
increases worse than ever, finally to die down 
for good, when all goes on just the same — only 
that tense, whispering sensation in the air which 
is there all night, every night. For an hour or 
so, out of the dark, parties of four go down the 
trench, muttering and swearing, carrying some- 
thing — "Look out there — gangway for a 
stretcher." The dead stay where they are, 
with a rubber sheet or an old sandbag, to cover 
their faces. Later, maybe that night or the 
next, a fatigue party will climb over the parados 
and scratch a grave a few yards from the trench, 
cursing the flares, and flopping, as Fritz plays 
a machine gun casually, just on the off chance, 
all along the ground behind, as a man might 
play a hose on a lawn. 

These graves are not marked. How could 



IN THE TRENCHES 239 

they be? Some one takes all the letters and 
things out of the pockets ; eventually, if the 
man who has them doesn't get blown to pieces, 
they reach the Quartermaster, who sends them 
home. Some one writes a letter, and that's all. 
No advance, no spectacular raid, not even re- 
pelling an attack. So many dead Heinies, so 
many dead Britishers. And so she goes. And 
such is "a trip in." 

Next day, 9 July, '17. 

I put in a most delicious night, we pulled down 
our tarpaulin cover and made a proper "bivvy" 
out of it; banked up the sides and covered the 
ends, fifteen of us. Most of us had parcels. 
No one had candles, though ; but I came along 
with those. Some one had cafe au lait. We made 
a little cooker. (I'm an expert, now, turning 
a bully beef can, a bit of sandbag, and a candle 
into a cooking stove. I used them right in the 
front line.) Every one had a cake, and cigar- 
ettes, and all ; we were a happy bunch. I guess 
the front-line boys will make the closest fraternity 
ever seen, after the war; you get to know a 
fellow through and through in half an hour. 
But it is just as I thought : only the men who 
go in and actually do the scrapping know any- 
thing of the war. Any one can work ; but when 
you work, and while working every second stand 
a chance of a sudden death, it's that that 



240 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

seems to count, and I guess it's only right it 
should. Today we have parades, parades, try- 
ing to get the mud off : the first at ten, another 
at two. It takes two or three days to get the 
mud off. 

It's glorious sunshiny weather. This after- 
noon, there may be a pay parade. Up the line 
there is no regular pay-day; you may get three 
a month, you may get only one. There is no 
town here ; but Y.M. tents and our own canteen, 
where you can get canned goods. The boys 
generally spend the whole works at once, and 
have one good feed. I guess it's the only 
way. . . . 

The standard of duty, conscientious duty in 
the line, at any rate in this Battn. is very high. 
I told you I was a stretcher bearer. The vacancy 
occurred in the big scrap Easter Monday. A 
fellow called C, an original man, through all the 
scraps had the place I now fill. It is not a sine- 
cure, but its dangers and hardships are lifted 
in a different plane from mere work. 

When my Company took its objective that 
day — the point was the brim of a ridge — they 
went a few yards too far. The Bosch was run- 
ning, and they followed. C. had been very busy 
up till then ; but his big effort was to come over 
the brow. The Germans had some batteries — 
what we call whizz-bang guns (about fifteen 
pounders). These were not all out of action; 



IN THE TRENCHES 241 

but when the gunners saw our boys coming 
over the edge they saw all was up, and decided 
to die game ; so, instead of shooting over away 
back, they turned the guns direct at a few yards' 
range pointblank on our boys. Many were hit. 
It was "Stretcher Bearer on the double!" from 
point to point. Poor C. did what he could; he 
dressed a few. It was finished, anyway; no 
one could live, and he was killed. He might 
have got a medal ! He did good work in the 
Somme, too. One or two very brave acts don't 
win medals now; consistent good work, backed 
by a conspicuous act, may. 

It's all in the game. There is no time for 
reports. You just hear, "C. did good work"; 
that's all. Every day, it is some one. A man 
cannot hesitate when he sees to do a thing is 
certain death ; it is his luck, he must do it, and 
do it on the run. My only fear is I may hesitate 
a second. I hope not, a thousand times. No 
one is safe. . . . 

. . . K. has made himself understand that the 
shell you hear coming is not yours, because the 
shell is ahead of the noise. I haven't got this 
yet, though I have tried hard. This is a good 
place to find out about yourself. I know that I 
am not naturally brave; in fact, far from it. 
But there is one thing I am counting on to help 
me out : I cannot naturally see any one suffer 
pain and not go out to give a hand, at least not 



242 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

in this, so I am hoping I shan't make any bad 
breaks. . . . 

Did I tell you I broke the nice pipe; the 
amber was bound to go out here sooner or later. 
I found another on "The Ridge" though, so I 
am not without; and, as I write, laid down in 
my "Bivvy", I am smoking your Imperial. 
Another thing ! don't send any more socks. It's 
the limit, the way the Daughters of the Empire 
of B.C. and other B.C. outfits send socks to this 
Batt'n. I have a lovely thick snow white pair on 
right now. We even get clean ones right up in 
the front line — nearly a pair a day. Our feet 
are considered very important, and whale oil 
has to be rubbed in frequently ; an officer stands 
over you while you do it. 

Plain chocolate, cakes, anything sweet is what 
we love. The two parcels I got were perfect. 
I could kiss you very heartily for 'em. 

. . . Dearie, you must know that I am with 
you and Billie every hour of every day. You are 
never from my thoughts. I cannot write of it 
much, not now, but you must know it is there. 

12 July, '17. 
My dearest Lai, — 

The time here is actually beginning to hang 
heavily. Though there is a whole battalion here 
made up of the men who have been left "out" 



IN THE TRENCHES 243 

for the trip — so many for each — there is nothing 
to do. We are in a tiny French village which at 
one time has been heavily shelled ; but now never 
even gets attention from any aeroplane. "Reval- 
ley" is at 5.30. At 7.45 we fall in for a parade, 
and at 8.30 are finished for the day. There are 
hundreds of little villages and small towns around ; 
but you don't feel like walking places when you 
haven't a cent. I guess a fellow has an awful 
nerve to kick while "out", no matter what the 
conditions; just the same I am getting bored to 
death. In about a week or so this little place 
would look like a little heaven. The worst of 
these kinds of rest, you get thinking — thinking 
of the waste of time, and the damn foolishness 
of it all. Just imagine it! here's me, a full 
private, the lowest pawn in the idiotic game, 
being played by a bunch of men you will never 
even see, who play from a position of perfect 
safety. For this I receive $1.50 a week to spend, 
the French people being careful to arrange a 
special scale of prices to relieve you of this mag- 
nificent sum tout suit. I have just had supper — 
a piece of bread one inch thick, about four inches 
square, a piece of cheese one inch square, and a 
pint of tea. I got this after standing in a line at 
least half an hour. When — if — I get home, I 
must begin my life over again from the beginning. 
If I get killed, the British Government, who is 
spending more than forty million dollars a day, 



244 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

will most carefully charge you personally for the 
blanket they bury me in. 

If I hadn't come, I would feel too cheap to live. 

The only farseeing men have been those who 
have got themselves commissions in the Army 
Service Corps and things like that ; nothing to do, 
a private clean your boots, better living condi- 
tions than they ever had at home, a certainty of 
eventually going home — and all the glory. Why 
in Hell couldn't I have foreseen that ? . . . 

I see they have had another air raid over Lon- 
don — serves them damn well right. Could you 
believe there could be such men living as to have 
the nerve to stand up and decry reprisals. There 
are too many of these fat overfed swine all over 
the world who played Germany's game. The 
pity is Fritz always seems to bomb the "East 
End" where the poor people live — ever notice 
that ? Why doesn't he ever bomb the palaces up 
"West" ? Why? A good many people are won- 
dering about a lot of things, these days. He'll 
never raid that particular part of town. The 
pawns are the people. But the people are be- 
ginning to think. The papers hint it, the men 
out here say it openly. Air-raid reprisals are of 
course the only thing to do. If you are having 
a scrap with a fellow and he punches you in a 
place you thought he wouldn't, do you merely 
try to look superior and just carry on with the 
scrap in your way? I guess not. Is this to be 



IN THE TRENCHES 245 

a fight to a finish, or merely an exhibition bout? 
However — I should worry. They won't bomb 
Ottawa; and if it doesn't do any other good, it 
will make the people think harder. 

I suppose you read all the ghastly exposure 
about Mesopotamia. I notice several papers 
begin to wonder if things may not be something 
like that over here. Well, of course, I know 
nothing about the General Staff; but I do know 
something about the medical conditions, which 
over in Mesopotamia were so frightful. And no 
one need worry about conditions as they are on 
the Western front. After a man once hits the 
field ambulance, he is alright; if his life can be 
saved at all, it undoubtedly will be. The atten- 
tion not only provides necessities, it includes 
luxuries, and the skill is of the very highest order. 
I guess that is why every one is tickled when he 
gets a "soft one." No doubt the Sisters have a 
lot to do with this. From what I saw at Boulogne, 
I cannot imagine a more conscientious, hard- 
working bunch, nor can I see how that particular 
hospital could be improved in any way. It helps 
a lot to feel that you will get a fair deal, and every- 
thing will be done that can be done, when you are 
in the line, and Fritz is "handing out Blighties" 
rather liberally. 

I feel all tickled about the medical end of the 
way my platoon will go into the line this time. 
It is my idea (and I am in my own mind con- 



246 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

vinced I have succeeded) to have it equipped to 
handle any sick and wounded the best of the 
whole battalion. As I have told you, it is most 
difficult and discouraging, trying to get supplies 
from the proper quarter. The suggestion is 
turned down that we should carry simple medicines 
in the line — like phenacetin, Cascara and like 
things. Obviously absurd — as a man goes sick 
and leaves the trench to go to the Dressing 
Station, when, if we carried the stuff, he could 
be treated right there on the spot. I have told 
you I am on good terms with all of our Company 
Officers, and I have explained all this and they 
agree. Again — another thing — the men like 
to feel that the S.B. is interested in the job and 
will carry all he can. Well, this trip, when just 
odd platoons were left out, and the M.O. was 
away, I made out a compendious list, got the 
O.C. and Adjutant to O.K. it, and beat it over to 
a field ambulance of a different division about ten 
kilometre away. And — got the whole works : 
ointments, spirits of ammonia — (to buck up fel- 
lows after being buried, etc.) pills of all sorts and 
everything. So now I go into the line with as 
good a kit as any advanced Dressing Station, 
and we'll be the only platoon having such an 
outfit. I don't mind the extra weight a bit. I 
am keen to make good on this thing, and it is all 
worth it. Also I am tickled about another fellow 
having joined us from the Taplow Hosp. He 



IN THE TRENCHES 247 

was wounded with the Battalion at the Somme 
last year, and while in Blighty was given a job 
in the Hosp. and learned a lot. Now he is back 
in my platoon, and I can call on him in a pinch 
for help. That makes three of us who can all 
give help in bad times. Of course the other two 
— H. and this fellow — carry rifles and are in the 
line like the rest. I am the only official one for 
that work. All through the bad times when 
Fresnoy was lost, I never had any help at all, 
and many times was at a loss ; but now all 
is different. H. is my assistant, and takes 
my place if I get hit, and the other fellow is 
spare man. 

So we are all fixed up and everybody is pleased. 

Friday, July, the thirteenth. 

My lucky day, you remember; but no letter, 
no parcel, and figs for tea. My luck must have 
departed elsewhere, or probably it's too hot for it 
to work. Well the Saturday Post was great. 
After I had read it, I intended writing some more 
to you, but another distraction came up. Some 
few hundred yards away is tethered to a traction 
engine, one of the familiar sausage balloons. 
Fritz got uneasy about it and actually started 
shelling it with 6' shrapnel. I guess that doesn't 
convey much ; but ask some one to describe to 
you the size of 6' shell. On the way over, it makes 



248 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

a noise like two express trains both blowing their 
sirens. I never saw a balloon shelled like that with 
such big stuff before. It must be an expensive 
business and most difficult work. The two ob- 
servation officers did not phone down to be hauled 
in, but stayed right with it till dark, when Fritz 
quit. Imagine shelling a small object like a 
balloon in the air, from a distance of ten miles 
away, and with a naval gun. They must be bugs 
or have something very important to hide, prob- 
ably the latter. Usually they employ planes to 
bring these down. It's a great sight to see Fritz 
swoop down vertically at over one hundred and 
fifty miles an hour, the balloon burst into smoke 
and flames, and then notice two white mushrooms 
slowly coming to the ground (the observers in 
parachutes), that is, if they are quick enough. 
The whole business takes about twenty seconds, 
from Fritz appearing at a terrific height to the 
conflagration. 

We haven't seen any news here for five days. 
We don't even know what the Russians are doing, 
or what is happening anywhere ! . . . 

As I have said before, when you get wounded 
your troubles don't automatically end — they 
only just begin. They end when you hit the 
C.C. Station and a woman gets hold of you. 

Kiss little Billie for Dad and tell her to 
remind poor old forgetful Mummie about her 
photograph. 



IN THE TRENCHES 249 

Everything here and with me is wonderfully 
well. I could not be better in health. 

15 July, '17. (Sunday) 
My dearest Lai : — 

One thing I like about the Canuck papers — 
at least the Vancouver papers, I don't know about 
the others — they print the officers' and men's 
names in the lists together. That's just as it 
should be, of course. In England, some papers 
don't even print the men's names at all — only 
officers'. I guess the men don't count over there. 
All the English periodicals, etc. deal exclusively 
with officers — the magazine pictures, even the 
blessed ads, all officers; they make me tired, 
those people. . . . 

Well, as I said last night, we were billeted in 
evacuated houses. My place was up two flights 
of stairs, in the attic with two more other fellows. 
I was just nicely getting to sleep under my over- 
coat, when the old familiar screech came over, 
apparently rather close. It was followed by 
several more. They sound worse at night some- 
how, and I'm afraid I didn't feel much like sleep. 
However, I wasn't to have any apparently, as a 
man came chasing up the stairs looking for 
stretcher bearers with a flashlight. I had taken 
all my clothes off, rather foolishly, I guess ; but 
we'd been "bomb proof" so long, I'd almost for- 
gotten about the war. I had to laugh at myself 



350 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

as I hastily got into my boots, forgetting I hadn't 
got my trousers on, and had to take 'em off and 
begin all over again. You couldn't light a light, 
as there were holes in the roof, and then I couldn't 
find my tin hat. However, I wasn't really very 
long before I was out in the street and following 
an Imperial Artillery man to where a man lay 
who had been hit. I did what I could — it wasn't 
much — a shell splinter had hit him in the stomach. 
As we bound it up, he was unconscious and getting 
cold. The man sleeping under the same blanket 
with him was untouched. I got four of his bunch 
to take him away on a stretcher to the advanced 
dressing station, wherever it was. They seemed 
to know. 

On the way over, I had decided to locate a 
heap of bricks and mud or something in the street, 
and spend the rest of the night in the lee of that ; 
but it came on to rain, so I abandoned the idea — 
I was only about fifty yards from the house — 
and as Fritz was now shelling another part of the 
town, I turned in in the attic once more. Again 
I was just going off to sleep when back came the 
shells to the old place and F , who was sleep- 
ing next me, said, — 

"What do you think we'd better do?" 

"Get out of here, anyway," I said. 

So we came downstairs and went and laid in 
one of the dugouts I told you of, just in front of 
the house. I am there now. 



IN THE TRENCHES 251 

17 July, '17. 

Last night, we moved from our comfortable 
chateau to meet the boys in the place where they 
were coming out to. 

It is a large town, the biggest I have seen within 
the shelling area. Here, there and everywhere 
in different streets I noticed shell wrecked houses ; 
but, with the town being so large, it isn't as notice- 
able as in a small village. We were billeted in 
houses which had been evacuated by civilians, 
though these are very few. The majority are 
occupied by women, children and old men. (Since 
I commenced this page four shells have dropped 
within about five hundred yards.) Try and im- 
agine, say, Second Avenue — our street is about 
like that as near as you can compare anything of 
the old world with the new — the sidewalks gone, 
the houses dilapidated for want of paint, bits chipped 
off most of them, the front garden fences all gone 
and rank grass and weeds choking up everything, 
most of the windows gone, the whole effect most 
down at heel and frowsy looking. In front of each 
house where the sidewalk was, is a hole in the 
ground, which is a dugout, reinforced with tim- 
bers. When a shell comes particularly close, the 
civilian and military population walking down 
the street at the time can dive down into these 
holes, for the moment, then crawl out and con- 
tinue along until another comes. Needless to 



252 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

say, the women don't wear white shoes and 
dresses, and "dignity" is forgotten. 

After all these months of war, the civilian 
population have got callous, seem to be able to 
judge the distance of the shells to a hair, and 
altogether seem far less interested than the 
soldiers. The shops and estaminets are all open, 
and in the Y.M. is a free cuisine nightly. The 
children walk about unconcerned, selling choco- 
late and spearmint — and "Ingleech Newspa- 
pairs" and never look up unless a shell actually 
hits in the street. The ground shakes perpetually 
with our own heavies which are hidden all over 
the town. 

Next day — (or rather evening). 

As I told you before, the Division just now is 
baseball crazy. The thing causes the most in- 
tense rivalry — even Generals attend — and the 
winning team gets a trip to Paris where they will 
play games against American teams. The rivalry 
between Batt'ns. in everything, line work and 
games, is at all times intense ; a sneer at a man's 
Batt'n. is a fight at any time. We kick about 
our crowd amongst ourselves ; but don't let an 
outsider agree, or it's bad for him. 

To lose a piece of trench is like losing a game 
through being a quitter. It's fine, the spirit; I 
love it — it's like school and college. I guess this 
would puzzle Fritz, wouldn't it ? This spirit — 



IN THE TRENCHES 253 

Next day. 

Today has been a confounded nuisance; the 
polishing is getting on every one's nerves. We 
even have inspection in the afternoons now; 
it's done to such a limit that entrenching tools 
have to be cleaned, and both sides of brass buckles, 
and so on — all for an hour's inspection by some 
General or other. All the officers seem to be go- 
ing crazy and harass the fellows to death. We'll 
soon be glad to get back to the front line, to get 
away from them ; there you only have a lieuten- 
ant around. This evening I had a very enjoyable 
time; the band plays most nights in the "Grande 
Place" as I see it's called — some name for a 
small village green ! You can sit around on the 
grass and read and listen to it. The French 
peasants and miners' wives and children all turn 
out, and, as it's a quiet little back water of a 
place far from the high road, no motors or trans- 
port going along stirring up the dust. . . . 

Thursday. 

I think I ought to finish this and mail it. 

Long before it reaches you I shall have 
experienced once again the nerve-racking old 
whizz — ker-ump of Fritz's little shells. I have 
had a good rest — a peach. Only four men out 
of a thousand got leave, and I was one. I am 
sure I never felt better, stronger, brighter, in my 



254 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

life; and my nerves are as good as ever again. 
In every way, I am far better equipped to face 
things than I was before the big show in April. 
I have seen things at their very worst, which is 
some comfort anyway, and I do not think, from 
gas to machine guns, old Fritz has anything new 
for me. "It is written", and all I can do is do 
all I can for the boys that get hit, and do my 
darndest not to get napooed myself. Maybe a 
Blighty will come my way, before the wet weather ; 
then I shall have an opportunity to exercise all 
my winning ways to obtain a dear little cease- 
fire job. I have heard it said a man coming back 
from a trip to Blighty on holiday dreads the life 
ten times more on his return. Well, I have care- 
fully analyzed my feelings, and I can truthfully 
say I am less afflicted with "funk" or "cold feet" 
than I was the first time I set out to go up. In 
fact — and I am rather surprised myself — I 
haven't the least bit of funk in me just now. I 
may have when I get there; but I'm inclined to 
doubt it. Of course, no amount of understanding 
or brains will save you from the one which is 
yours; but a knowledge of shelling at its worst 
considerably helps you to do instinctively the 
safest thing unconsciously, in an ordinary strafe. 
Another thing I have which is invaluable to 
me in my particular branch, that is, the con- 
fidence of every man and every officer in my 
outfit in my being on the job when I'm wanted. 



IN THE TRENCHES %55 

I know I have this ; I think, too, you will be glad 
to know it. It is nice to feel that you are trusted 
and maybe — liked. 

The only thing for you to do, too, is to "carry 
on" and carry on with the biggest and bravest 
heart you can. You can do this, I know; you 
had always the better of me in facing hard situa- 
tions bravely. 

We have been told officially there is hard fight- 
ing ahead. There is. I know it — you know it. 
I think we are on the eve of some big things ; the 
place we are going to is going to figure very largely 
in the news. The Canadians have won a great 
name. I am not speaking with prejudice. They 
have all the dash and spirit of the other Colonials ; 
but — and a big but — they can be relied on not 
to get excited or go too far; in other words, to 
obey orders to the letter. 

All I have previously said about wanting to get 
away from it all, of course still goes. I'd give 
anything to; but I want to go legitimately, if 
that is the right word. 

20 July, '17. 

. . . The place I was writing from before 
got altogether too hot. That same afternoon, 
a woman got killed, and another shell took the 
front of a house off ; a woman had just gone to a 
little lean-to shed only a second before, and there- 
fore wasn't hit. Such are the trifles that come 



256 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

between life and death in that town. The amaz- 
ing thing was that half an hour afterwards the 
old man, the old woman, and a child were uncon- 
cernedly putting old boards up over the shell hole 
against the weather. 

At night, we got orders to move. Eventually 
we arrived in a little wood and were told to " dis- 
miss." F. and I lay under a tree. Early in the 
morning, it came on to rain. Next day, we tore 
down some old buildings, got pieces of rusty, old 
corrugated iron, and made a sort of lean-to against 
the tree. It rained all day and the wind was 
terrific. We covered it with branches broken 
from the bushes ; it helped, but it wasn't rain- 
proof. Life is still very damp, and uncomfy — 
very. 

Yesterday K. came back, looking very well and 
fit, but horribly despondent, as he's missed his 
leave. I think he intended getting married. 
Can't now, he says. He'd never try for a staff 
job down at the base. He asked to come back — 
would you believe it — because — he wasn't 
getting his mail. Some reason ! 

You'll see we've had the King over. He was 
up near us some time ago and reviewed some 
B.C. Canucks about a mile away. Luckily they 
didn't call us out. If we had been, I guess we'd 
have been polishing and cleaning for six months 
ahead. You should have heard the language of 
the bunch he did see. 



IN THE TRENCHES 257 

Reviews are the biggest bore out here. Appar- 
ently those who do the reviewing forget our chief 
consideration is whether we'll be alive next week, 
or the one after, and therefore can hardly in the 
nature of things be wildly enthusiastic in having 
a brass hat walk by you, who never saw a shell 
exploded except through a telescope. 

I want you to order "The Sunday Pictorial", 
for July 15, '11 . In it you will see a picture of 
the Church Service held on Dominion Day that 
I told you about. I am about the centre of the 
bunch of men on this side of it, though of course 
you cannot see me. I want you to keep it, as it 
is a fine example of how hot air is dished up to 
the public. It says: "Enemy Air Craft over 
a Church Service" — whereas it was our own 
planes, which of course the photographer knew 
— so would any of us who used his brain. It's 
hardly likely about four thousand men would 
stand packed in a bunch calmly looking up at an 
enemy aeroplane while the padre carried on with 
the service. It's like the pictures you see of big 
bugs in the trenches. Yes — trenches for teach- 
ing recruits down at Havre or somewhere. There's 
always something that gives it away to any one in 
the know, like showing men with gas masks not at 
the alert — i.e. on the chest — or without a tin hat. 

Now I must finish this. Writing is very diffi- 
cult. It's wet, cold and windy, and I ain't got 
no 'ome, at least only a very flimsy one. . . . 



258 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

27 July, '17. 

I feel utterly dispirited to-day. We moved 
to a different town again, one that's deserted 
and shelled pretty bad, like the rest around 
here. Yesterday afternoon I spent with young 
V. R. and in the evening went up into the front 
line on a working party. On the way back a 
shell dropped amongst the bunch and got eigh- 
teen. The work, the confusion, all in the dark 
and everything, was awful for awhile, one boy 
dying awfully hard with a wound in the stomach 
— had to be held down for fear of tearing off his 
dressings. I was called over to see if it had 
slipped, felt down ; but it hadn't, so I went away 
and they got him off to the station. This morn- 
ing — as young V didn't come over to see me 
as usual, I went to hunt him up — to find it 
was him who had the stomach wound, and he was 
dead. I went over to the ruined house where 
the dead were and sure enough it was him, poor 
kid ! He just looked asleep. If only I'd known 
it was him, when I was called over, I could have 
given my other cases to other men, and stayed 
with him till he died. But in the darkness and 
hurry I never recognized him. The other stretcher 
bearer that dressed him told me at the time the 
man couldn't live. I remember I asked him if 
he knew him; but he said he didn't. And only 
last Saturday we were going to walk over to 



IN THE TRENCHES 259 

the nearby town — H., K. and I to have our 
photographs taken together; but left it too late. 
A brighter, cleaner, steadier young boy never 
came to France. I think he told me he was an 
only child. I will get his mother's address, and 
have you write. I cannot. By you get this, 
I'll have been through — or otherwise — the 
biggest battle of the war, I guess. If I'm to get 
it, I shall, I suppose. Well, what is there to 
say? Nothing. It's my fate alone that can 
show. Every second of these coming weeks, 
my heart will be reaching out to you. I love 
you, dear Lai — am yours — now — and for- 
ever. You have been always — are the one 
perfect thing in my life. 

28 July, '17. (Evening) 
My darling Lai : — 

The weather is lovely, warm, clear, bright blue 
skies. The nights, though, are getting chilly, and 
sleeping without covering of any sort is not so 
pleasant. 

It's queer how magnificently confident every 
one is. I am quite sure it has never occurred to 
any one that all might not go well ; that, for in- 
stance, Heinie might put up such a resistance as 
to stop us. How terrible it must be to be fight- 
ing a losing fight ; to know you are opposing men 
who never even figure on your resisting at all, 



260 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

just plan to walk right over you without even 
contempt, not even with savagery, just in the 
day's work ! Every one knows the artillery will 
support us to the limit artillery science has gone, 
as they know the other Batt'ns. are just humans 
like ourselves, and will go over without hate, 
without excitement, just because — 

It's the job of work we came to do, and we do 
it. That's all. I have looked to find some dif- 
ference — some sign in the fellows around that 
we are going into battle; but there's none, none 
unless that the mail bag is heavier — if that's a 
sign. The boys discuss it, of course; but only 
in a detached way, more as to technical details 
than anything else. I heard a man wondering 
if they'd be able to get mail in to us, and kicking 
because he thought they'd probably be too darned 
lazy. One fellow did say he hoped there wouldn't 
be many casualties, but he didn't sound awfully 
interested. . . . 

(I guess) 29 July, '17. 

We are on the eve of the most terrific thing in 
history. Our Batt'n has a most difficult part to 
play : as each hill is occupied, we will have to 
take and hold the trench. There will be Ger- 
man trenches which of course will receive very 
bad shelling. All the time, we shall be carrying 
supplies up to the firing line — which, in cases 
like this when an operation is on, is done in broad 



IN THE TRENCHES 261 

daylight without cover. The whole operation is 
going to be terrific, so big, in fact, that some 
think it will even end the war this year. I'm not 
saying all this without thinking. I mean it can't 
make you anxious as, by it reaches you, the 
operations will be either a success or otherwise, 
and I'll be either well — or out — 

I only wish I could tell you all the details of 
what I am seeing, and what I know, but that must 
wait till I'm home. The things happening hourly 
are so tremendous ; the ingenuity, machinery, 
preparations, all so unbelievably terrific, I couldn't 
even put it on paper, if I were allowed. 

One thing, I'd hate to be in the German 
front line today — and on. It is my firm be- 
lief that it's now or never, the turning point of 
the war. 

There's going to be casualties, and nasty 
sights, and nerves tried to the limit. I'm ner- 
vous — nervous as hell ; but I'll make it alright, 
I'm sure. I mean I won't fall down. The rest — 
is written — . 

A complete victory was snatched from us at 
the Somme, owing to quite unexpected bad 
weather. At Vimy, on April 9, it was cloudy, 
rained, snowed, and utterly prevented a very 
large advance. 

Today it has unexpectedly rained, heavily; 
aeroplane work at a most critical moment is sus- 
pended; and roads already in very bad shape. 



262 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

In all probability, the advance will be held up. 
The trenches, incidentally, will be hell. . . . 

I am keeping up a good heart — trying not to 
think of anything nasty — mainly hoping. I'll 
make a good showing on my job, which I shall try 
my utmost to do. 

Victory will be ours, of course. 

My heart and all my soul are yours. 

We shall meet again, I know. 

30 July, '17. 

My dearest Lai : — 

The weather has gone clean back on us. Isn't 
the coincidence amazing — and the bad luck of it ! 
Think, every time we have planned an advance on 
a huge scale which would of necessity bring the 
war nearer to an end, the weather has intervened 
and stopped us. Today it is cold, wet, dirty, not 
a plane to be seen. The guns go on, though. 
There are minutes when you cannot hear your- 
self speak. The "whizz-bangs" don't open up 
till the zero hour when the boys jump over, or, 
rather, a few minutes before. Though the ground 
throbs day and night with this titanic preparation, 
there are hundreds of hidden guns that have never 
even fired a round yet. At Vimy, too, there was 
only a gun barrage ; in this are to be all kinds of 
new-fangled contraptions in addition. I certainly 
don't envy Fritz. I wonder if the Canadian 



IN THE TRENCHES 263 

papers are putting you wise to the thing. The 
English papers openly speak of it. . . . 

As you know, all trenches bear names, like 
streets. They have to, for map purposes, and 
so you can find your way about, direct people and 
everything. What sort of a humorist was the 
guy who named the trenches we occupy? We 
enter by "Cork Screw Trench" and through 
"Suicide Hole", our resting place being "Murder 
Alley." He had a genius for the job evidently, 
and one is not likely to forget the names. . . . 

So thorough is this job, that roads have been 
built in the night right over the shell-torn, open 
ground, over trenches, and everything, then cov- 
ered over lightly with soil, so it looks just the same 
as the surrounding ground. Nothing has been 
forgotten, you bet ! 

31 July, '17. 

My Dearie Lai : — 

Today wet, cold, impossible weather; our 
bombardment slacking off a bit. Did nothing 
all day, sat in ground floor room, no ceilings, 
walls mostly wrecked, no windows, and large 
opening leading into hall. By tearing beams off 
outhouse, got wood for fire which we made in 
remains of the open fireplace. Very cosy when 
we covered the holes up with waterproof sheets. 
Heinie quit retaliating altogether. 



264 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

In afternoon, he had the nerve to send a plane 
over — circled round just overhead. We could 
plainly see iron crosses on wings. Fierce at- 
tempts were made to get him, one chap having 
the presence of mind to get his rifle and have a 
shot. To every one's disgust he got away. We 
are sore; but I guess the batteries were sorer, as 
no doubt he got pretty fair photographs. It was 
a brave act, and you have got to hand it to him. 
We all expected a deuce of a "strafe" after he got 
home, but as yet none has come. Slept as usual 
in the cellar on my stretcher, as none of us had 
even an overcoat. Haven't slept for nights, owing 
to the cold. 

1 August, '17. 

Weather worse — it's damnable. Was there 
ever such luck ! Rain came so badly through 
roof had to hunt around for corrugated iron to 
put on the remains of the ceiling beams — that 
is, on what was once the front bedroom floor. All 
dry then, huge open wood fire — jake ! Noon, 
heard armies to the North and South had gained 
objectives, but one had had a hard fight. Do not 
thoroughly understand it. All seems to be going 
well, though. Maybe their weather is not like ours. 

Evening. 

May have to go on working party tonight. 
Got full supplies of dressings. Got a fine kit 



IN THE TRENCHES 265 

now. Was low, owing to busy time the other 
night. Fritz now starting to come back a bit 
with overhead shrapnel and 5.9's. One casu- 
alty only so far. Mail for every one but me, 
Cheerful ! Got a cold. Dreading trenches ; 
they'll be full of water. Damn the luck ! Good 
weather, which we had every right to count on, 
and we would have been away ahead — "Gott 
mit uns." 

% August, '17. 

Weather worse and worse, positively awful. 
Rain incessant — and cold. No news of a move, 
and no working party last night. 

This morning got a very old paper. Young 
French kids bring papers right up, when they can 
get hold of them. ... A French "civile" will 
face the whole German Army for a franc. They 
have a Jew or a Scotchman backed right off the 
map. The papers have the early news of the 
opening battle in Belgium. We hoped for a com- 
plete smash ; but what could you do in this 
weather and without 'planes ? Our delayed move 
was only to be minor, anyway, in comparison with 
the big show, and now in this weather I don't 
know what they will do. A success as planned 
might have ended the war. The Kaiser has 
some excuse for saying Gott is mit him. 

. . . Well — We are not going up. The show 
is off. 



Zm A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Now's your chance to prove to me that the 
Almighty is with us. This push was intended, 
without a shadow of doubt, to finish the war. The 
weather intervened in favour of the Germans, 
and the war is prolonged. 

4 August, '17. 
3rd Anniversary. 

Rain of course. That goes without saying. 
Had a small parade this morning, practicing 
putting on "Gaspirators." Six seconds is the 
time allowed and that is ample. I see the morn- 
ing's paper says the reason there were not more 
prisoners up north was because our bombard- 
ment killed so many — M'yes — quite so ! 

We have had a small lecture on the Huns' new 
gas. Large calibre shells of Prussic Acid gas. 
Gentle creature, the Hun ! It has already been 
christened the "Mustard" shell, as it leaves the 
ground, where it hits, yellow, and tickles the nose 
like mustard. It remains effective for as long as 
thirty hours. You can absorb it through the skin 
by rubbing your clothes with your hands ; in fact, 
any old way. It seems to be made so you can 
get gassed with the least possible trouble on your 
part. "Deadly" is its middle name. A place 
may be shelled with it, one day, and you go past 
that place next day, and be gassed. So you see, 
in spite of everything, the humane German has 
found another horror to add to the list. 



IN THE TRENCHES £67 

5 August, '17. 

Still rain, rain, rain, no change. The trenches 
and shell holes will now be quite full. Got a 
paper this a.m., and am not impressed, decidedly 
not impressed. But we can't fight the elements 
too, and as Germany has evidently enlisted the 
weather man on his side, what can we do? It 
is beyond words. You can safely arrange your 
Xmas festivities and leave me out. 

It's noon, and as yet we have no news of our 
own wee show. I can't think that we shall stay 
here much longer. The other battalions in the 
brigade have done a turn, holding the line till the 
show opens, and it's up to us. 

Eats are poor, awful poor. 

Last night, Fritz came back a bit in this little 
burg. None came too close to our particular 
bedroom. At least, we didn't consider it too close, 
though I guess if shells burst near enough to your 
house in Ottawa to throw mud and bricks down 
your basement steps, you wouldn't sleep much. 
It depends on your point of view. Last night 
was the best night I ever had, with my own pillow 
and sandbag blanket. 

A fellow I know got a nice pocket edition of 
Service's Red Cross Rhymes and lent it me. The 
Stretcher Bearer one, for which I hoped a lot, I 
thought rather poor. No one seems ever to have 
told in writing about the Batt'n. S.B. He is the 



268 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

only Stretcher Bearer that doesn't stretcher bear; 
but goes in, lives and works with the battalion in 
the line, and does the first aid over the top or be- 
hind, all the time. The next nearest are the Fid. 
Amb. bearers who bear only, and go after the scrap 
or strafe, when sent for, to get the wounded out. 
When not wanted, they are way back in a dug- 
out, the Batt'n S.B. being in the trench or shell 
hole all the time with the boys. Again, he does 
not wear a red cross, and, in a counter attack, gets 
killed along with the rest of the boys, as he is not 
classed as a non-combatant. 

. . . He should write one to a trench cooker, 
the old bully-beef tin with holes. It's just a 
candle, then a bit of sandbag or shirt flap. How 
many meals I've cooked on such a range ! By the 
way, sandbags don't figure much in the war now 
— only to carry things in. Heinie uses very few. 
He prefers concrete, and of course we occupy his 
old lines. The old days of putting France and 
Belgium in bags is fini. 

Well I guess it is time to go down into the cellar 
and try to sleep. I pinched a few sandbags today, 
tied them together, dried them out, and have what 
I think will make quite a blanket. Am anxiously 
looking forward to seeing the paper in the morning. 
No one has a word of news how the big show in 
the world is going. Doesn't it seem queer, only 
a few miles from the battle and you over there 
have news forty-eight hours in advance. I guess 



IN THE TRENCHES 269 

tomorrow will be the last day for us, though there 
is no change in the weather. 

18 August, '17. 
Somewhere before Lens. 

My very dearest girl, Lai : — 

I am anxious to get this out because on Mon- 
day at four-twenty we go over the top. It doesn't 
sound or look much when you write it, does it? 
But it's — well — a serious undertaking. I want 
to tell you something first of the big battle. As I 
write, maybe even you are reading of our big show, 
a success out and out. What we thought was 
going to be only a minor affair has turned out to 
be one of the big things of the war. 

Last Tuesday night we came in. Just as we 
were leaving, it started to pour, and we all thought 
that once again Heinie's lucky weather man had 
come to his aid. It cleared up though, and right 
along the weather has been glorious. 

Things had been very quiet all day, but just at 
the moment that we reached the place where 
young R. was killed, he opened up with gas and 
H.E. — a terrific strafe, and we were right in it. 
It was pitch dark ; shells were dropping all round ; 
the din and screech was terrifying. For a second, 
I was afraid there was going to be a stampede. 
The fellows got a bit rattled with the gas, and 
grabbed for helmets. The only thing to do was 



270 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

to rush along through it, as he wasn't shelling 
beyond the town. I could see clouds of gas com- 
ing out of fallen shells, but to get my mask on 
would have meant dropping my stretcher. I 
decided to run, and hold my breath. Just then 
I fell on my head in a new shell hole, stretcher on 
top. When I'd scrambled out, I was alone. I 
was scared some, I must admit ; but I charged 
ahead, got there safely, stretcher and all, and 
joined up, put my mask on for a while, and soon 
we were out of it, with the shells all bursting be- 
hind us. It was touch and go for a minute, and 
can you believe it — not a man was hit. How 
I'd have managed if there had been casualties, I 
dunno' — not in all that gas. Thank God there 
weren't any ! 

.... At four-twenty a.m. you'd have thought 
the earth had cracked open. My God, it was 
marvellous ! I don't know how many guns we 
have, some say one to every three men. Maybe 
a thousand, maybe ten — I don't know. With 
the first roar we manned the trench and began to 
move along to our places some few hundred yards 
further up the line. No power on earth could 
keep us from getting on the parapet to have a 
look. It was too dark to see the men advancing 
behind the barrage, but the line of fire — ye Gods ! 
Try to imagine a long huge gas main which had 
been powdered here and there with holes and set 
fire to. The flame of each shell burst and merged 



IN THE TRENCHES £71 

into the flame of the other. It was perfect. It 
was terrible. The flames were dotted with black 
specks which were bits of rock and mud. Never 
has anything been seen like it. And to think on 
Monday morning I shall advance — me — be- 
hind just such a line of fire — into what ? 

Well, we arrived at our trench and just manned 
it. No shell came near us ; we were quite out of 
it all. After some while, the barrage died down. 
Only the scream of the heavies overhead and the 
whirr of planes and the heavy crump, crump, 
crump of Fritzie's shells behind us searching for 
batteries. He might as well have tried to shove 
the sea back with a broom. 

Later, news filtered through from wounded 
coming back, and engineers, and old men. All 
the objectives had been taken, all the counter 
attacks broken, such and such a batt'n had lost 
heavily, another lightly — and so on. Hill 70 
was ours, and the villages and trenches consoli- 
dated. Canada had proved herself again. But 
it is not another Vimy ; this is no walk-over, it is 
a pitched battle. Heinie hasn't quit yet, is hang- 
ing on desperately. His air service is better, he 
comes down and fires on the trenches; but his 
counter attacks lack spirit, and no wonder. Our 
guns — my God ! If you could see them — and 
they say each gun only fired three shots a minute, 
and they are capable of firing twenty ! This isn't 
war; it's murder. There are as vast numbers of 



272 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

prisoners this time, as at Vimy ; but the dead are 
piled in heaps. 

On Sunday night we go to the jumping-off 
trench, his line of Wednesday, and attack. At 
four-twenty on Monday morning — and that's 
why I want to write to you (and to Billie) . 

Luckily I am in the first wave, and taken — 
that we lie out in the open in advance of the jump- 
ing-off trench a ways ; and, as we have only iive 
hundreds yard to go, we should be on him before 
he gets to work on us with his guns. Holding it 
after we have taken it, will be up to us. Any 
wounded in the jump-off and in the open I must 
leave for the second wave, though I guess I'll hate 
it. In fact, I won't do it, if F. or any one gets it. 
I suppose I'll be busy most when he puts his 
barrage on his lost trench. We shall take the 
trench, that goes without saying. . . . 

All the boys are very optimistic — and say, 
"There's one thing, we are just the very guys that 
can do it." 

Sure we are. 

(All the Heinie prisoners I have seen are about 
eighteen years old, not more, and those who have 
seen the dead say they are all the same, just kids.) 

Our grub is rotten, just when it ought to be 
good, I should think — only bully and biscuit, no 
jam or butter, and about a little spoonful of dry 
tea. I am writing this in an old Heinie dugout — 
just outside Loos. It's full of rats and, as in all 



IN THE TRENCHES 273 

of them, the floor is wet and we have no coats or 
blanket; but I have salvaged a board to lie on, 
and, with my rubber sheet, it isn't so bad. Shell 
proof, anyway. The worst of it is, we have no 
tobacco or candles. 

Well, Lai, old pal, I'll finish this. Whether I 
see you again or Billie, the next few days will say. 
I think I'll be able to keep my nerve and do what's 
right. I hope so. I wonder what you'll be doing, 
Monday morning. I'll be thinking of you all the 
time, waiting for the barrage and the signal. 

You'll know all about me, if there's anything to 
know, by Wednesday or Thursday, I guess. Let's 
hope it's a hospital bed in Blighty. The main 
thing is for me to do what is expected of me. Do 
what you would do. Don't let's say anything 
about anything really nasty happening. It isn't 
going to. I don't feel morbid, or downhearted, 
or anything; in fact, most hopeful. I hope F. 
pulls through. I'll be awfully worried about him. 

Kiss and love up our little Billie for me — lots 
and lots and tell her I am thinking of her too — 
a great deal. 



V 
A NICE SOFT BLIGHTY 



A NICE SOFT BLIGHTY 

September 1, '17. 

Pinned at the head of the sheet is this clipping. (Editor.) 

The night falls now, and softly flow 

The red lamps, stretching far ; 
And rest is here for lads who know 

The blood-red night of war. 

Still peace and quiet days at last, 

Grey walls and spreading flowers — 
A haven from the raging blast 

Of battle-shattered hours. 

Now overhead the hour strikes slow, 

The last birds softly call ; 
The night falls, and the red lamps glow — 

And God's stars over all. 

V.A.D. Hospital, 

England. 
My very dearest Lai, — 

Well, I've got all settled down, though I only 
came yesterday. To come here after France — 
the front line of France ! It's the limit ! But 
let me tell you. 

The house is an English country home. It's 
lent to the Government as a V.A.D. Hosp. and 

277 



278 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

is used exclusively for Canadians and Australians. 
I guess it holds about fifty. The staff are all 
English ladies. Don't look for their pictures 
in a "sister uniform of costly and studied sim- 
plicity " doing "War Work for our soldiers" in a 
high class English society paper. It won't be 
there. They are here to help us get well, and 
apparently make us happy. They succeed com- 
pletely. Not a man but loves the place. The 
amazing thing — there are no rules, yet these 
fellows, fresh from the line, never swear, are 
intensely polite, go out of their way to help, and 
generally conduct themselves far better than 
they ever did in their lives — and like it. Yet 
the majority of "brass hats" and such like would 
say it couldn't be done. The presence of just 
one "military guy" would spoil the working of 
the whole machine. 

It is quite a large house. We sleep in beds, 
above each of which is a card saying it is kept 

up by one firm or person in B . The only 

work we do is make this bed. There are several 
bathrooms, and tons of hot water. The whole 
place is free to you to run over any time of the 
day. As I say, there are no rules at all ; yet the 
place is the most orderly, where soldiers have 
been, that I have ever seen. There are large 
grounds — I have already played tennis — and 
lawn golf. You are ashed not to touch the fruit 
trees; every tree is loaded with fruit, and is 



A NICE SOFT BLIGHTY 279 

untouched. In France, they put armed guards 
over fruit trees, and every one, in spite of it, is 
rifled and most of the branches broken off. In 
the grounds are open-air sleeping huts for patients 
needing air. Most of the men here are rest 
cures; my own case gets no treatment other 
than fresh air and rest. There is no treatment 
anyway for gas. There is a billiard room, cards 
of course, and all games, piano, gramophone, all 
the latest magazines, etc., and a library, a peach. 
(I am starting on Ian Hay's books.) In the 
lovely big rooms are really easy chairs, not the 
near variety of a Y.M.C.A., and open fireplaces 
with fires in 'em already. Always there is some- 
thing doing. Last night a whist drive, tonight a 
concert. There are also passes for any one to 

go to B any or every day, or to any place 

you want, from two to seven. I am as happy 
and contented as I could possibly be. I haven't 
mentioned the meals. Breakfast bell rings seven- 
thirty, a really breakfast. Dinner is positively 
scrumptious — two vegetables and meat, and 
swell dessert, lots and lots of it. Tea four 
o'clock, and then a meal, a proper meal, at 
six-thirty or so. And to think ! A couple of 
weeks ago I was a filthy object in the trenches 
— nervous — verminous — hungry ! Sometimes 
I think I'm going to wake up; it's only a 
dream. 

Tomorrow is Sunday, and I am going to try 



38Q A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

and go to church. I see there are services. Do 
you know I don't think I've realized all this yet. 
I'm quite contented to sit here by the fire and 
read. The war is miles and miles away. Now 
that I'm civilized again, I must get back to living 
and thinking again. I realize what a different 
me it is than the one that left Canada. To begin 
with, I am horribly irritable, short-tempered, and 
nervously self conscious. I don't think alike on 
hardly anything I did. I always detested super- 
ficial people ; now I hate 'em — ten times worse 
— I like really people ten times more. I dunno' 
how you'll like your new husband at all; he's 
altogether different. One thing, though : he 
likes his wife better than ever he did ; he's quite 
sure of that. Also he's got an awful longing 
to see Miss Billie. She wasn't real in France, 
he never thought he'd see her, not really; but 
now it's different, and she's most awfully real — 
and a thousand possibilities open up. 

Sunday Evening. 

I had a set at tennis; it's been raining a lot, 
and the court wants marking again. I think 
I'll do that very special job tomorrow. I've 
read all Ian Hay's books. There are so many 
here it's hard to choose which to read first, but 
I've just decided on one of W. L. Locke's. In 
the desk where I am writing, in the French 
window of a lovely big room overlooking the 



A NICE SOFT BLIGHTY 281 

gardens, are albums for fellows to ink stuff in, 
a sort of memory book. Most of the stuff is 
weak and rotten, but now and then something 
good has come along. I must put something on 
myself, but I don't know what yet. I also came 
across a list of men's names who had been here, 
the date they came, and the date discharged. 
This list was interesting because I see a month 
here is all that can be safely expected. 

3 September, '17. 

I have had no mail from any one, from the 
Battn. or anything. I guess that is because I 
have moved around so quickly. I still don't 
know what happened when they went over, 
that morning. The fellows here from the 29th 
were casualties in earlier scraps — just minor 
affairs. I have written F., also K., and another 
fellow. It is useless writing again ; things change 
so quickly out there, any or all of them may be 
dead, or in Hospital, or where they can't write. 
It's rotten not knowing what has happened to F. 
It is useless to worry, yet I can't help it. He 
and I were real friends. I only hope he got a 
nice one. It is the best thing you can wish any 
one out there — and indeed I cannot see how 
he could possibly go through the recent stuff 
and get nothing. I only hope it wasn't a 
napoo. 



282 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

5 September, '17. 
My dearie Lai : — 

I've just come in from one of our strenuous 
route marches — 45 minutes, it lasts, and con- 
sists of a stroll to the nearest Park, a rest, and 
then a stroll home. Yesterday was a glorious 
warm autumn day. In the morning, the boy I 
came in with borrowed from some one he knew 
here the large sum of ten shillings, ^ve of which 
he gave to me — and as we are allowed out from 
ten to twelve, as well as from two to seven, we 
decided to take the motor 'bus into town. In 
the afternoon we went with a bunch of Aus- 
tralians to a roller rink — I didn't skate — I 
don't feel up to it yet, anyway — and later went 
to the main Y.M. a very large building and had 
tea — getting in about six in the evening. We 
played tennis — some of the sisters came to 
play, and also we had our pictures took on the 
lawn. Later, supper; salad, bread and butter, 
and cocoa, a bit of a read at my book, then bed 
at nine. Can you wonder that when I wake in 
my little bed, with the nice linen sheets, and 
get into lovely clean underwear, I feel altogether 
happy in the thoughts of another ripping day 
ahead. . . . 

If only I could get mail from the Battn. ; but 
there is nothing as yet. Surely, they can't all be 
Casualties. There are rumours that we have 



A NICE SOFT BLIGHTY 283 

been taken away from Lens. Though we have 
suffered particular Hell there, I don't suppose a 
man but will be sore if that happens. We have 
done all the dirty work, even Vimy was part of 
it, as he shelled us from there — and it is up to 
us to take the town; it is our right. Though I 
guess it's easy for me to talk — here. That's 
no doubt how the Generals and Brigadiers talk, 
who do their fighting on the plans from safety. 
Maybe, if I was up there, I wouldn't care who 
took the place as long as I was out. It wasn't 
fighting up there, it was just plain murder. You 
walked on dead bodies to keep out of the mud. 

What a war ! We take half a dozen shell 
holes on the West and lose one hundred miles 
in the East. Last night there was another air 
raid. They got clean away, and inflicted heavy 
casualties, I see. Can you blame Germany for 
doping it out that she is winning ? 

Peace — I think — is further away than it 
was last year ! If America doesn't do something 
startling next year — and I doubt if she will 
have had time — I see yet another year of war 
without peace at the end of it. 

7 September, '17. 
V.A.D. Hospital, 

England. 
But K., poor old K. What can we say? 
Somehow I think K. had a hunch. He was so 



£84 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

different from his usual optimistic self; he was 
so worried not getting his leave; he wanted to 
get married. But fancy the rotten luck ! A 
fortune in a gold mine in B.C., and a really 
lovely girl ! Now, all gone — for what ? 

I remember the last words I spoke to him. 
We stood, he and F. and I, "on the top." Loos 
was half a mile behind us — Lens in front. All 
was desolation; it was evening. We spoke of 
the coming scrap. K. thought it was going to 
be easy; but it wasn't the real K. who said 
it. We stood there quite a time. There was 
no need to dodge the shells ; they were all 
dropping just behind us. He joked me about my 
"bunged-up" eyes; it was after I was gassed, 
and before it had begun to work on me. Poor 
K. ! I'll call on his people, when I go on leave ; 
they are in London. He told me if anything 
happened to write to his girl. How can I do 
that? I couldn't. His mother must do it. 

10 September, '17. 
V.A.D. Hospital, 

England. 
My dearest Lai : — 

I'm all alone practically, and it's a lovely day. 
There were two "engagements" for this after- 
noon — a party to go to the pictures, and a tea 
afterwards. Also a tennis party at some big 
house near and a "feed." I had my choice, 



A NICE SOFT BLIGHTY 285 

but couldn't go to either which is most decidedly 
rotten luck. Old Fritzie's gas hasn't altogether 
left me yet, and decides to come back every now 
and then. Last night it bothered me a bit and 
again today. I went for a 'bus ride to B. to 
take a note to the General Military Hosp. for 
the Commandant and have just got back. See ! 
I'm glad I'm not there still. Just a sight of it, 
and its military system, its surly orderly room 
sergeants — cease-fire bums who have never seen 
France — got my goat at once. How I'll ever 
cotton on to things military again, after this 
glorious freedom, I dunno', though I guess it will 
have to be done. 

Tomorrow the big exodus of Canucks takes 
place. Believe me they are a sore bunch, and 
they have my sympathy. I'd feel just awful if 
I was one of them. Out there, it amounts to 
being under sentence of death, and it's foolish to 
figure it any other way. Again your mental 
state is abnormal; you don't think in any way 
like the people who live in safety. Every time 
I have ever written you, I have been thinking I 
should not be able to finish the letter. No 
wonder it takes your mental breath away, so to 
speak, to turn into a place like this, knowing 
you can go to sleep and think of tomorrow. 
Strange too how quickly you fall back to your 
proper state ; already it jars to sit next to a man 
who eats with his knife, and reaches in front of 



286 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

you. Out there, you are just an animal. To 
even think there's a chance of continuing existence 
when you can live, and plan, and anticipate, 
staggers you. Yet — I am thinking there's a 
chance. 

I am still without any news from France — I 
sent my address to our Battalion Orderly Room 
and also to B. Co. Clerk. I thought he would 
forward mail on ; but none has come. I wonder 
what they do with it. If F. had been alright, 
I feel sure he would have got mail through some- 
how. F. would take over my job : kit, supplies, 
etc. I guess I'll know soon now. I wrote 
asking the Canadian Red Cross to get my mail; 
it appears they do that for you. I expect some, 
every mail. We have more than one a day here, 
but none comes. 

I never cease to marvel at my amazing luck. 
Also to be thankful in a truly humble spirit for it. 
Good-bye, Dearie, 

Your boy, R. A. L. 



A NICE SOFT BLIGHTY 287 



L'Envoi 

Here is something that goes right to the point, 
eh? 

It's exactly what I am trying to be and do. 

A Trench Litany 

God of Sabaoth, I but ask 

Humbly to bear whate'er befalls — 

The dreary, uninviting task, 

The sight that sickens and appals, 

Ear-rack of never-silent guns, 

Burden of bars vicissitude, 

Losses of comrades — cherished ones — 

To suffer all with fortitude. 

If fate vouchsafe me safe return 
To firesides of my fond desire, 
Grant me the grace never to spurn 
The lessons learned in lines of fire — 
Chivalry, love, and noble aims, 
Knowledge of things undreamed within, 
And this — that Private What's-his-Name's 
The same as I beneath the skin. 



£88 A CANADIAN STRETCHER BEARER 

Or if the hollow eyes of Death 
Should cast commanding gaze on me, 
Bidding me yield the shibboleth 
And plumb the black, unf athomed sea — 
I pray that I at last may fall 
In paths where Honour ever strayed, 
And answer the unwished-for Call 
Unquestioning and unafraid. 
Au revoir 
Your Boy and your Pal, 

R. A. L. 



EPILOGUE 



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"Darby the Yank" fights with the Tanhi 



A YANKEE IN THE 
TRENCHES 



By CORPORAL R. DERBY HOLMES 

OF BOSTON 

Late of the 22d London Battalion of the Queens Royal West 
Surrey Regiment 

12mo. Illustrated. $1.35 net 



The actual life of a soldier on the Western front in billets, 
in the trenches, over the top, across no-man's land and in 
hand-to-hand conflicts with the Germans is here vividly re- 
lated by a gallant young American who fought in the English 
army, until, twice wounded, he was invalided home. Cor- 
poral Holmes fought in the battles of the Somme where he 
witnessed the first of the tanks in action. He participated in 
thrilling charges and he only ceased "strafing the Hun" when 
wounded and sent back to "Blighty." He tells his many and 
varied experiences in trench and billets in a straightforward 
manner — experiences just like those our United States troops 
are undergoing in France. This is not a book that depicts 
mainly the horrors of war, for the lighter side is adequately 
presented by this soldier boy. It is a narrative to stir the 
heart and kindle the imagination of the reader. 



LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers 

34 Beacon Street, Boston 



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Treatment Date: JUN 200 

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